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phantomwarrior12 · 3 years ago

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Stubborn Distractions

He's asleep.

Finally.

After today, they weren't sure if he'd ever fall asleep. From the moment the two of them stepped foot in their home, Zavala had been anxious and distracted. This isn't the first time they've seen him like this, but never to this extreme. Never to the point where his eyes found the horizon and hadn't left it for a solid hour.

They had intended to leave him alone. They had intended to let him process and gradually come back around to them. They were prepared for it to take awhile but when Eris checked in after two hours, they told her of his state and her orders were clear.

Distract him.

So, they'd done just that.

They'd taken his hand, guided him away from the window and pushed him down onto the couch. They set about removing his armor and although he protested, insisting he was more than capable, they gently reminded him it was time to rest.

Armor was removed then, slowly, gently. It was placed by the door and they set about making him a cup of tea.

While water heated, they returned to his side and summoned the only smile they could manage. His head didn't lift, his eyes distant once more and their features hardened.

Sharp eyes darted for a suitable distraction and hope ignited when they found the book on the coffee table. They snatched it up and took a step closer to hold it out.

Vibrant blue slowly blinked and refocused on the outstretched volume.

It was a routine of theirs. Every so often, Zavala would read to them at night, the Guardian tucked beneath his arm and comfortable against his chest.

His voice is their favorite sound. Always so calm and soothing. They'd spend the following morning going over the chapter, discussing and analyzing but there was always some teasing - one of them usually fell asleep toward the end of the chapter. It's become a toss up as to which.

"Not tonight, Guardian." He said gently, taking the book but setting it back on the table.

Their shoulders sagged but the Commander reached for them, taking one of their hands and gently guided them down into his lap. They tried to remind him of the teapot heating but he was reluctant to let them escape back to the kitchen.

Instead, their Ghost shut off the stove. Instead, the Titan Vanguard held the Guardian close and laid his head on their shoulder.

It's where they find themselves now, an hour later, maybe. They are still seated in his lap, still bound in his arms but his breathing has steadied against the side of their neck.

Their fingers had begun to wander, massaging along tense tissue in his neck and despite the rigidness of tendons, Zavala did not stir.

They kiss his shoulder gently, closing their eyes as their head comes to settle against his.

They're sure his mind is still reeling, haunting him through his dreams. Perhaps a distraction? Perhaps his mind can focus on something else, some outside input.

Their mind scrambles for a suitable thing to tangent about but…poetry. Zavala enjoys reading it and the Guardian has been borrowing old records from Lord Shaxx.

Shakespeare, they think. They'd committed some to memory, having intended to recite some one of these nights to impress him.

Now is as good a time as any.

Their voice is soft when they begin. Uncertain, even. The words tumble off their tongue but there is no feeling to them.

That's not right.

They begin again. This time clutching their partner a fraction tighter against them, whispering the words with a sort of eagerness and a fragment of emotion. There are so many that address something so complicated as love, affection, soul mates even.

But none suit a hell like this.

Still, they recite. Softly. Affectionately. Still, their voice rises a fraction and the words come easier. The emotions resounding.

But they keep themselves quiet for fear of waking him.

Hours tick by, sonnets flow here and there until their own eyes grow heavy and they start to sag against him.

"Those are well recited, Guardian."

His voice startles them and they jolt upright.

He chuckles softly as he leans back, but even his laugh sounds sad. Their eyes search his own, suddenly alert and intrigued and mildly embarrassed.

"...I thought you were asleep," they admit sheepishly.

He smiles, head angling a fraction as he reaches up, cradling their face. "I did, here and there. Perhaps it's time you read at night."

Their face flushes and their eyes dart to anywhere but his. The Guardian’s head shakes, taking his hands in their own.

"...I realize why you started to recite," he begins softly, "I imagine none of this is easy on you–"

"It's not about me, Zavala." They say firmly, "I'm here and I will help anyway I can."

He takes a deep breath, shifting his gaze to the window, "These are feelings I've push down for a long time. Entire lifetimes spent.. submerged and drowning while simultaneously, resisting and fighting." Sharp blue sweeps back up to their steady gaze. "How can I ask you to–"

"You needn't ask anything," they interject with a soft smile.

"No, I suppose not." He relents, squeezing their hands.

"Would you tell me about them? Your family?" They ask tentatively.

"One day. But not now."

They nod, squeezing his hands before pushing themselves up and out of his lap. "The bed will be more comfortable for rest."

"Guardian, I–"

Their brow arches, their head tilting as they hold a hand out expectantly. They want him to realize he won't win this argument because he's already lost.

He pauses, looking from the outstretched appendage to their eyes. They hold his gaze and eventually, his fingers slip into theirs.

"Very well, Guardian. You win…this time."

They help him up with a triumphant smirk all the same, entwining their fingers.

It's a matter of minutes before the two of them are comfortably in bed. The Guardian’s forehead resting against the Titan Vanguard's. Sleep comes easily to them both and they pray his dreams are pleasant ones.

They'll be there regardless.

They love him too much not to.

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Taglists are open! Send an ask/leave a comment to be added!

Forevers: @halo-2 @reaped-winnower @forgotten-by-the-stars @sugarcoated44 @cayde-6 @avrosaetos

#commander zavala #zavala #zavala x guardian #zavala x the young wolf #the young wolf #destiny 2 #destiny #phantom writes

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strawberryxfieldz · 3 years ago

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character ask !! dib, zim, wirt x3

aaa thank you for all the characters ok ok

Dib

A. Dib has a lot of acne when he gets older and he smells, both things Zim constantly makes fun of him for but Dib doesn’t really care about. The only part of his appearance he cares about is his cowlick, which he thinks makes him look cool so he makes sure to maintain it.

B. Dib stays a vampire-bee for… well forever but it doesn’t affect his life much, he just drinks a lot of honey. Also he could command an army of bees Disney princess-style should he ever want to but he rarely does.

C. Dib is hardly ever afraid (he’s been surrounded by the paranormal all his life and has kind of become desensitized to fear) but his biggest fear is not being able to be a successful paranormal investigator. He worries that he won’t be able to support himself and will give in to his father and become a scientist and give up on his dreams since ambition can only get you so far.

D. Zim won’t let Dib study him even when they are friends but Dib and GIR becomes close and the robot doesn’t care if Dib studies him. This really leads to nowhere though because GIR is an enigma being powered by trash and able to cry/eat and all, and Dib can’t make sense of any of it.

Zim

A. Zim has no concept of gender so he doesn’t really have one but he still goes by he/him pronouns. But ask him his gender and he will throw you off a roof.

B. Zim and Gaz become quicker friends than Zim and Dib do, even though they hang out less. The two are just faster to admit they enjoy each other’s company. Also Zim is a really good video-game player, though still not as good as Gaz.

C. Zim relies a lot on the Tallest’s validation and after ETF he becomes somewhat aware that will likely never happen. He eventually accepts this and instead finds his validation in fighting Dib and from being a worthy opponent. Basically he copes with violence but still experiences regular breakdowns like the one from ETF.

D. Zim gets into fashion eventually but sticks to his uniform’s format of mostly dresses and leggings and boots. Sometimes his outfits make no sense but he still looks better than Dib who wears the same trench coat every day and cycles through the same three shirts.

Wirt

A. Wirt is really good at memorizing Shakespeare since he loves to read the plays and sonnets. The only time he is smooth around Sara is when he is reciting Shakespeare, even when it’s a monologue less about love and more about death.

B. Lord of the Rings exists in the OTGW universe and Wirt is a total nerd for it. He loves the fact that he sounds like Elijah Wood and is complimented on it a lot within the fandom (he thinks it’s his best feature).

C. Wirt gets a lot less of his mom’s attention when Greg and his new step-dad comes into the picture which is part of the reason he resents Greg. After the events of OTGW though, he comes to appreciate Greg and is able to feel less alone within his family and with new friends like Sara.

D. Wirt is a hopeless romantic and has confessed to many crushes, both guys and girls, as a kid and been rejected each time. He’s become cautious and when it comes to Sara, he made sure to be extra prepared, and it’s also why he had a lot of anxiety about giving her the tape. Also because he has more feelings for Sara than any of his past infatuations.

#if you know ever after high think of A for Wirt like Hopper Croakington #ask #invader zim #zim #dib #zadf #zagf #otgw

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pinkhairedlily · 3 years ago

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Chapter 8 - Student Council President Sakura

SCPS AO3 | PREVIOUS CHAPTER

“Oh, hello there Sakura.”

She almost lost her balance when she saw her next customers. Standing beside Kakashi with her arm entangled in his was a brunette, a spitting image of Dr. Aki Nohara, a giveaway that this was her sister. Sakura’s surroundings dimmed out of focus, and her hearing became muffled as if she was submerged underwater.

“Couldn’t mistake that green eyes for anyone,” Kakashi continued. “I’ll have a caramel butterscotch with extra whipped cream – make it super heavy – and Rin –“

“That’s supposed to be my order, you dummy,” the woman replied beside him. He chuckled in fascination and tightened his hold on her arm. “Besides, you don’t like sweets.”

“You’re still on a specialized diet so allow me to eat and drink whatever you want while you stick with – “ Kakashi glanced at Sakura, and she immediately mustered a tight-lipped smile. “One iced americano in your smallest size please. Thanks, Sakura.”

She took in a deep breath, suddenly aware that she wasn’t able to acknowledge her teacher and his companion, but so many things have been running through her head – like how did he know it was her? Why was he with Rin? Did he propose already? She hasn’t even confessed yet.

Somehow, in the dragging silence in her ears, she heard Sasuke cleared his throat. That was enough to break her from the spell, and she put on her bravest mask. “Hi Kakashi-sensei. Nice of you to drop by! I’ll have your order ready in a jiffy.”

Kakashi turned around and waved lazily at Sasuke. “One of my students is here too. Are you on a red eye advance study?”

“Can’t sleep so might as well have caffeine.”

“You’re too young to have this energy.”

Rin jokingly slapped Kakashi on the arm. “You talk as if you’re old already.”

“But aren’t I?” The pair slowly drifted away to find a table, but Sakura noticed the flash of recognition when Rin took a long good look at Sasuke, but her friend stared at them like he was throwing sharp draggers.

“He looks happy,” Sakura noted as she fixed their drinks.

“I want your favorite coffee,” Sasuke quipped out of nowhere.

“There’s a thing called palpitations. It’s caramel macchiato.”

“Might do me some good while I wait for you to finish your shift.”

Sakura sighed, feeling the tiredness come upon her all of a sudden so she relented. “Just take it to-go. I want to get out of here.”

She quickly asked permission from the manager, saying she felt sick and fatigued, and with her clocking overtime in the past few weeks, her request was immediately approved without deductions. The mixed winter and spring air hit her lungs as soon as she stepped outside. Sasuke waited for her across the street, a gesture that implied she could go to him or separate ways right now. As she vied for time to decide, she took one last look through the window.

It was a foreign sight. She has never seen Kakashi’s attention torn apart from his books. Even if he was talking, there would be an open page on his side, stealing glances on passages when the conversations got boring, yet there he was, fully attuned to whatever Rin was saying with no book around him…like she was his favorite book and he enjoyed reading every letter of her.

And Sakura realized she could never be the story he would even want to pick up.

She felt the tears coming so she started her pace on the same road. Across from her, Sasuke got the signal and went the other way.

--------------------------------

The last term of their second year came like a bazooka. Sakura threw herself on her pet project as a sort of coping mechanism. The announcement was done during the general assembly which did not generate the intended buzz or reaction. After all, it was a tricky topic to handle and many facets of which were still stigmatized when talked openly in public. Naruto, ever the people magnet, broke the agitated atmosphere in the auditorium with a slow clap and was soon joined by many others.

The council created a Google form which allowed students to anonymously register, and they get assigned a schedule on the day their contracted psychiatrist comes to visit. All they had to do was provide their designated client number. The council further complemented this with short programs that serve as mental health breaks for the student body. Sometimes, this would be as light as a block screening of a coming-of-age film or heavy like a conference with faculty and teachers and questions and concerns are remotely flashed.

Then came Valentines’ Day, and the council organized this some kind of literary showcase that presented the opportunity to mingle woes of personal sadness and griefs with confessions that would have been left unsaid. Naruto and Sasuke both helped in constructing the makeshift stage in the middle of the soccer field that would be used later that afternoon.

“Cookie points for my crush,” Naruto grinned as he hammered away. “Thanks for picking the poem I will be reciting tonight, grumpy. Didn’t know you were into literature.” He jokingly elbowed the raven-haired beside him, and he got a death glare in return.

“Do it properly. Look at that nail sticking out like your porcupine hair,” Sasuke grumbled. “And yes, I’m not as uncultured as you are.”

“But I still don’t understand it though.”

“Ugh, just use the internet to search its meaning, idiot.”

“Meanie!”

A fellow runner peeked into their work area and knocked on wood. “Hey Uchiha. Some girl is looking for you.” Her face expressed grimace, having done this for more than five times already within the span of an hour. If it wasn’t Sasuke, it was one of Naruto’s fan girls or boys.

Sasuke went to her and fumbled around for cash in his pocket. “Next time someone looks for us, tell them we went home for the day. Here’s money for your date later. If you have anyway.”

“Whatever grumpy.” The runner replied, still half-angry, half-frustrated, but she took the money all the same and told the girls that ‘They told me to tell you they went home for the day so shoo shoo.’

Naruto laughed at Sasuke’s successful attempt at bribery. “Look at that rich money. I wonder whether Sakura will give us chocolates.”

“Have you seen their office?” Sasuke flipped open the curtains that will be hang as backdrop. “Their desk is filled with chocolates from her admirers – platonically, romantically, whatever. Some people from other schools dropped by too. You got serious competition.”

Naruto chuckled nervously. “As if I do not know that already. Haven’t you told me before- she likes everyone and everyone likes her.”

Not really true at all now, Sasuke thought to himself. But ignorance is bliss, Naruto.

--------------------------------

The three sat on the grass beside the stage, having full view of the student body listening to the reciters. Throughout the program, Sakura went through each package given to her, visibly stressed with evident signs of sleepless nights under her eyes.

“Before I forget, happy Valentine’s day you two. My council-mates told me you didn’t get any chocolates,” Sakura gave each of them a pouch of small chocolate bars. Sasuke didn’t have to guess if it was store-bought or homemade based on the cuts on her fingers.

“Sakura, stop eating. I almost gagged at the seventh chocolate,” Naruto complained. He tried to get the basket of sweets from her, but she just moved it away from his reach.

“Everything tastes bitter,” she muttered under her breath. “I need sugar. My energy can’t keep up with the countless interviews. I understand that the school board liked the exposure, but the burden falls on me. At least have a teacher back me up?”

“Heard Kakashi-sensei volunteered to accompany you in interviews?” Sasuke was too late in shutting Naruto up, but the most that question got out of Sakura was an eyebrow raise.

“I need more sweets.” She proceeded to jam the rest of the Hershey’s kisses in her mouth.

“Okay, we have a submission from Uzumaki Naruto,” the announcer said. “Shout out to our rookie MVP!” A round of applause. “And who might be the recipient of this poem? We heard through the grapevine that he hid from his admirers all day. I know several people are waiting to confess to him!”

Sasuke instructed him earlier to send the poem anonymously and address it to Sakura, but the dumbass blonde mistakenly exchanged it. He rubbed his forehead in annoyance, but he can’t bring it up right now.

“Just read the poem!” Naruto shouted on the side, clearly embarrassed now. Sakura looked up at him, genuinely curious now, and her sticky chocolate-filled mouth was on the edge of firing him questions.

“Sasuke and I sent in poems! Just to support your program, nothing really too deep into it ehe.” Naruto glanced at Sasuke with slightly widened eyes. “Right, Sasuke?”

“Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare,” the person started.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,

Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”

Sakura slapped Naruto on the arm. “Didn’t know you read Shakespeare! What a romantic!”

“Isn’t it a tragedy?” Sasuke remarked, a look of disgust in his face when Sakura mindlessly offered him a toblerone. “No sweets for me.”

Sakura guffawed at Sasuke’s remark, and her laughing was a rare sight recently. She was in too deep in her student council functions that they barely see her. And when they did, she’d be a little bit closer to fatigue.

“What’s funny? Who’s Shakespeare? Let me in on the joke!”

“Let’s call on Kakashi-sensei, our very own student council advisor and youngest teacher in the university. He’ll be reciting a poem by Pablo Neruda. A man of culture, we see,” the emcee announced.

Sakura stopped laughing as soon as she heard his name. If Sasuke could glean into her thoughts, she’s probably making up excuses to escape right now.

Kakashi stood in the middle of the stage, holding an open book. “Let me just ramble on here for a bit. Neruda is a Chilean poet and a politician, but just as much as he is a revolutionary, he is a romantic and a worshipper of ideals and ordinary things. He often compared his muses to earth and nature – basic providers of our existence. It’s interesting to see. Now, this poem is what I would have wanted to say to someone who is fundamentally part of my existence, but she won’t listen to me.” Kakashi smiled even more at the onset of outburst of giggles from the students. “So you’re gonna be the audience whether you want it or not.”

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,

your hands the color of a savage harvest,

hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,

I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,

the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,

I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,

hunting for you, for your hot heart,

like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

A thundering applause followed Kakashi’s poem and random shouts of, “Drop her name sensei!” “Good luck to your love life!” “Happy for you, sensei!”

As the lights went out on the stage, Sakura fished another pouch from her vest pocket, and Sasuke knew at once that it was Kakashi’s. She popped a bar into her mouth, staring blankly ahead.

“God, it’s so bitter.” Her lips started to quiver, and she started to cry.

Naruto threw a worried glance at Sasuke, but his expression must have given something away because the blonde didn’t prod, and he looked as if all the puzzles fell into place.

Sasuke just didn’t expect to be confronted about it as soon as the program finished. He was carrying blocks of wood to the shed when Naruto dropped the question – a question he already knew the answer to.

“You like Sakura.”

Sasuke inhaled sharply and halted his steps. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He stacked the wood against each other and turned to face the blonde. “Besides, shouldn’t you be worrying about exams?”

“What exams? We’re exempted from it,” Naruto bristled.

Sasuke smirked. “No, you’re not. You didn’t qualify for finals.”

“Oh shit.”

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“What do we get in return?” Sakura asked as she munched on her bento box. Shouts of the practicing dragonboat team filtered through their space.

“But last time you volunteered!” Naruto said.

“We’re friends so my services don’t come free anymore,” she chided back.

Naruto glared at Sasuke. “If she’s not gonna do it, you’re gonna do it.”

Sasuke nonchalantly shook his head as he skimmed through Naruto’s notes. “What she said.” They weren’t notes per se, but doodles of Sasuke and Sakura and interestingly, projections of different batting stances. “I’m also not gonna forgive you with the duck butt hair.”

“But you have a duck butt hair!” Naruto crossed his arms and huffed menacingly. “Ramen?”

“Same old, same old.” Sakura finished her lunch and started to sip her cranberry juice. “Give us something new.”

“Ramen and…..karaoke?”

Sakura brightened up at the prospect. “Deal.”

“At least add snacks to your place,” Sasuke interjected. “And not just ramen. Put some nuts or fruits in your fridge.”

Naruto grumbled but raised two thumbs up in defeat. “Deal.”

--------------------------------

Sasuke has thin patience when it came to teaching Naruto, Sakura observed. She didn’t know how these two managed to do the supplementary math lessons when she wasn’t a part of their group yet. She didn’t mind teaching, but Naruto’s short attention span was a devil of its own. He would be attentive to her for 15 minutes and then drowse off so Sasuke and her agreed on non-negotiables.

“No ramen break for you if you don’t finish this set of problems,” Sakura told him.

“You’re demon spawns,” Naruto cried out in defiance.

“If you don’t get a passing score on this sample test, no kani toppings for you.” Sasuke raised the stakes.

“Demon spawns,” Naruto repeated.

“You won’t call us demon spawns if you see your name on the list of passers.” Sakura started the stopwatch on her phone. “Now go.”

This took her mind off things, from Kakashi’s public confession to the blank career form hidden within the pages of her history textbook. It was a good distraction until the penultimate exams day. Naruto came in with a bandana on his forehead with FIGHTING written in the middle of it. Sasuke, as usual, breezed through it, already finished by the thirty-minute mark.

And she? Well, she liked exams. The time limit and the pressure allowed her the reprieve to shut the rest of the world out so she relished answering each number until the bell rang. It was a moment where she can focus fully on the paper in front of her, the sound of her pen scribbling, and her mind working full force to cull out the answers in her memory. Her utmost concentration on questions suspended her own questions on her feelings for a teacher, on her parents’ divorce, on her future.

When the school plastered the results on the bulletin board, she couldn’t help but release a satisfied chuckle. She turned to Sasuke who was surprisingly stoic about the results. “First place! The bonus point really helped.”

“Why should I bother with a teacher’s middle name for the bonus question?” Sasuke grumbled back. “Congrats. Stop rubbing it in my face already.”

Naruto was too busy pointing his name on the board and bragging about it to the student body, most especially the freshies. When he found them on the back of the crowd, he rushed to them and placed his arms around their shoulders “Drinks on me!!!!!”

--------------------------------

“He really shouted drinks on me in the middle of the school, sauntered in here like he’s loaded, and ordered two pitchers of iced tea.” Sakura kept bringing this up since they entered the karaoke room ten minutes ago.

Naruto was preoccupied with inputting song numbers on the machine to respond to Sakura’s banters. “Technically, they’re still drinks!”

Sasuke was on the phone with the kitchen, and from what she could hear, he was ordering almost everything on the menu. When he sat down on the adjacent couch, Sakura leaned forward to him. “Are you gonna finish all of that?”

He jutted his index finger to Naruto. “No, but he will.”

The first notes of Michael Jackson’s Thriller wafted through the room, and the blonde made a quick impression of the artist’s famed moonwalk.

“Why are you opening with that?” Sakura cried out in amusement. “It’s not even Halloween!” Sasuke watched Naruto try to dance with a straight face, but she thought he was itching to face palm the whole time.

Naruto kept beckoning Sakura to join him in the middle of the room, but she was busy laughing at him and taking videos. “I’ll send these to Haru as a pick-me-up. I think this is the best remedy.”

Next was Sakura’s pick – Heaven is a Place on Earth by Belinda Carlisle. She couldn’t contain her laughter in between verses when the two boys finally heard that she was tone deaf. Naruto joined her with the other mic, trying to drown out the off-key notes. By the bridge, Sasuke stood up with them, a glass of juice in his hand, and mouthed the words.

“You know this song!” Sakura said excitedly.

“I don’t live under a rock!” He yelled back amid the loud music.

“OOOH BABY DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT’S WORTH OOH HEAVEN IS A PLACE ON EARTH. THEY SAY IN HEAVEN, LOVE COMES FIRST. OOH HEAVEN IS A PLACE ON EARTH!”

“Okay who’s next?” she asked when the next number flashed on the screen. Sasuke silently took the mic from her and faced the monitor with a hand in his pants’ pocket.

Naruto gripped the mic harder when the song started. “I’ll be your second voice, grumpy!”

She immediately went to the front and started recording. “One for the road.”

“No videos, Haruno,” Sasuke warned.

“Come on, it’s my remembrance,” she whined. He wasn’t able to clap back when the lines started to move.

“Turn around…” Naruto sang.

“Every now and then, I get a little bit lonely and you’re never coming ‘round,” Sasuke’s baritone voice filled the room like an empty coliseum.

“The fuck. You can sing?” Sakura gasped out loud. “How can you have that voice and not sing - like you know, every day?!”’

Sasuke gestured her to stop as he belted, stoic-faced, through the chorus with Naruto singing like a slaughtered pig in the background. Sakura stopped recording and joined them for the rest of the song.

Two hours and three pitchers of orange juice later, they finally settled on the couch and munched on Naruto’s leftovers of fries, buttered chicken, nachos, and calamari. On the karaoke monitor was David Bowie singing Heroes.

“Can’t believe we’re already seniors two months from now.” He stared at the ceiling, his eyes following the tag game of disco lights. “Elections of officers will be tomorrow which means Captain Haru will be formerly stepping down.”

Sasuke reached out and shook his hand. “Good luck next captain.”

Naruto immediately pulled out from his grasp. “What do you mean next captain?”

Sakura chuckled and patted his back as assurance. “Everyone knows it’ll be you. Have you seen how your teammates look at you when you’re discussing strategies?”

In the dimness of the room, she saw the flush on Naruto’s cheeks, and she found it amusing how he cannot take compliments.

Naruto scratched the back of his head. “Well, everything is possible, right? That said, I still haven’t filled out my college form, but I’m really set on getting an athletic scholarship and eventually be part of the national team! How about you grumpy? Changed your mind yet?”

“About what?” Sakura glanced at the silent raven-haired guy beside her. To be able to see this much of him was a nice privilege.

“I’m moving away after high school.” Sasuke fiddled with his half-empty glass, his eyes trained on the slushing juice. “I already sent applications to some universities in Europe.”

“We also have good medicine programs here. I don’t get why you have to move away so far. I’m so bad with converting time zones.”

Sasuke scrunched his nose in annoyance. “Are you dumb? The schools you listed are also out of this district.”

She seemed to be moving farther and farther from their exchange. Like an outsider peeking in, she understood the frailty of the moments in front of her, and by the time the next two months set in, the stopwatch would have started running its last lap. The bonds she has made so serendipitously were in danger of being cut off by dreams. She breathed in, engulfing the noise and scent of this room, panning every color and shape assembled like supercut in her head, praying that someday if she would lose herself, she’d come back here right at this frozen memory and relive the wonderful indecisiveness of adolescence and the chance to say I don’t know without repercussions.

“Sakura to earth?” Naruto’s voice.

“Idiot. It’s earth to Sakura.” Sasuke’s voice.

She blinked fast, returning to the moment that wasn’t finished playing out yet. She quickly brushed her hands on her eyes as if something got into her eyes, hoping they don’t see the small droplets of tears that have formed. “Oh uh, I have a list of prospects, but I’m not quite sure what to take.” The form was still blank actually.

“That’s a usual problem of anyone who’s too good at everything,” Sasuke replied.

“Are you complimenting me?” I wish I was.

“Should I take it back?” He proceeded to gulp down the remnants of his glass.

The monitor suddenly turned off, indicating their time has run out. “Hey guys, for our last term, let’s make the most out of it, all right?” Naruto asked. “I’m so happy we became friends.”

“No hugging please,” Sasuke said, but it was too late. Naruto’s arms were too strong to pull away from so the two allowed him a few seconds of skinship.

Naruto’s words struck a chord in Sakura; it was a resolve she tried to form and disfigure for several months now. Before they could stand up to fix their things, Sakura blurted it out loud before her courage took the best of her.

“For our last term.” She flexed her fingers and curled them up against her palm, placing weight on her lap as she ground her fists onto it. “For our last term, I’m gonna confess to Kakashi.”

AO3 LINK | NEXT CHAPTER | CHAPTER 9

#SCPS #student council president sakura #sasusaku #uchiha sasuke #haruno sakura #uzumaki naruto #hatake kakashi #kakasaku #narusaku #anime fanfic #fanfic #sasusaku fanfic

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matthewtkachuk · 4 years ago

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feel something pt 1 - jj

On the outside, you’re a kook princess with a seemingly perfect life and a perfect family. The expectations are suffocating you, to the point where the only thing you feel is numb. You’re chasing different coping mechanisms in order to feel something. Until a chance encounter with a certain blond pogue you know you’re supposed to hate gives rise to a different kind of feeling.

Warnings: angst, toxic behaviour, poor coping mechanisms, drug usage, mentions of sex, mentions of suicidal ideations (brief), Rafe being a grade a asshole, shitty parents

Pairings: JJ x reader (eventually), Rafe x reader (slight), Topper x reader (slight)

Words: 3.1k

A/N: I accidentally deleted this, ugh sorry if you see this again!! I started off wanting to write a supremely angsty one shot, turned into a supremely angsty multi-chapter fic. This is a slow burn, babyy. Here’s the set up, let me know what you think! :)

series masterlist

You stand teetering on the edge of the balcony railing, barefoot and facing the waves as they crash onto the beach. You’re not thinking about jumping. At least you’re pretty sure you won’t actually jump. Really you’re just looking for even a flicker of an emotion to stir up in your chest. Lately you haven’t felt anything more than mild annoyance at your parent’s constant bickering and pestering. You know you’re too young, but all you feel anymore is numb. You lift your left leg, balancing precariously on the right for a minute before lowering it and returning to the balcony and slipping your heels back on.

You don’t want to die, you just don’t want to live like this. Kook princess, paraded and practically pimped around by your parents, looking for you to find an advantageous marriage, have 2.5 kids and further accumulate your hoarded wealth. “Why don’t you date the Cameron boy? He’s quite good looking and your father would love it if you married his business partner’s son” and “The Thornton boy would be a good match, the family mansion is the largest” and “Jacob Kane’s father is a name partner at a successful law firm on the mainland”. Your mother’s incessant nagging about finding the perfect husband only further cements your lack of value as a human being, your usefulness tapped out at your ability to be someone’s wife.

You don’t understand the wealth accumulation thing, your trust fund probably equals the national budget of a small country already, and there’s no way anyone could blow through the entire family fortune in a single generation. At this point, it just feels like generating wealth for the sake of generating it. What good is money if it just sits in a bank account or investment portfolio, earning passive income and not being used for anything.

You recognize you’re very privileged, you’ve never once had to worry about where your next meal would come from, you have a closet full of designer handbags and red bottom shoes the value of which could feed several families on the Cut. But what’s the cost? You feel suffocated by the pressure bestowed upon you by your parents. You’re the eldest sibling, primary heiress to the Y/L/N family fortune and expected future successor of the family business. Truthfully, you couldn’t give less of a fuck about retail development or whatever it is that keeps your father so busy that he missed every single one of your piano and ballet recitals growing up. You like the idea of studying Shakespeare’s sonnets and soliloquies over learning about mergers and acquisitions and tax avoidance laws at college, but you know your father would sooner cut you off than let you pursue your own passions.

Sometimes you let yourself fantasize about leaving it all behind, running off to some college like Columbia, moving to New York and living in the city that never sleeps. With your 4.0 GPA and stellar extracurricular activities, you could probably get a pretty good scholarship. Or maybe Paris, where you would sit in a cute little café flirting with French boys and writing poetry by the Seine River. But it would be hard, and you’re too much of a coward to see if you could make it on your own without daddy’s money. Not to mention the little voice in the back of your head that sounds suspiciously like your mothers telling you that you’ll never amount to anything without their help.

Later, you’re wandering the party, both hands curled tightly around the cup you hold to your lips, eyes staring out at the crowd over the rim. Unfortunately, you catch Rafe Cameron’s eye as he’s sat around the coffee table with a freshly cut white line ready on the surface. He’s surrounded by the idiots he calls friends and more than one pretty little rich girl making eyes at him. The left corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk as he realizes you’ve sized up the company around him.

“Hey Y/L/N, want a line? First one’s on me, babe.” He calls out at you, but you just roll your eyes and keep moving forward. As desperate as you are to feel something, you’re not sure you can cross that line just yet. Partaking in the occasional joint or bong rip is one thing, but hard drugs is another. You don’t think trading in the empty feeling in your chest for an addiction is worth it. Seeing the blown out pupils of some of your peers, and the way they not-so-discreetly sniff and wipe at their noses you realize you’re likely alone in that assessment. “Your loss!” he calls out at your retreating form, and you don’t even bother to look over your shoulder. You know he’s not really interested in you beyond making you a customer and maybe a quick fuck.

You snort to yourself, wondering what your mother would think about the boy she wanted you to pursue offering you a line of coke at a party. Knowing her, she would focus on the fact that you had gained his attention and ignore the illicit substance.

Making your way through the cluster of bodies is harder than you had initially thought, everyone was on everyone. Every kook party ends up this way, a certain subset of the group coked out and the rest so drunk they can’t function, and you begin to wonder why you even bothered coming.

You’re not totally sure what you’re looking for, your best friend and Rafe’s younger sister Sarah doesn’t really associate with this crowd anymore ever since she started spending all her time with the less fortunate side of the island. Rafe had called it ‘slumming with those dirty fucking pogues’ the last time Sarah had partied with you. Maybe it isn’t right to call her your best friend anymore because not only does she not associate with this crowd, she doesn’t really associate with you either.

You know she’s hanging with Kie again, there are a lot of watchful eyes on the island and even more flapping lips. It’s kind of ironic, Sarah was the one who convinced you to drop Kie, and you had let her. Now the two of them were spending all their time together on some dilapidated boat named after the inhabitants of the Cut and you were alone at some lame party with a heavy weight on your chest and under your eyes.

Sighing deeply, you down the rest of the contents of your cup and grab a refill before turning your attention back to the crowd of people in the middle of the living room. As your brain starts to fog further with the familiar feeling four vodka crans give you, you let Topper put his hands on your hips and pull your bodies close together, your back to his front. A voice in the back of your mind wonders if you’re supposed to feel guilt over Sarah’s ex’s hands all over your body, but you don’t feel anything and Sarah clearly doesn’t give a fuck about you either.

The next morning you wake up with Topper’s hands around your bare waist. There’s a pain radiating against your skull and you have cotton mouth, but you quietly gather your clothes and sneak out of the room before the sleeping blonde can wake up and give you that regretful look he gets in his eyes every time you hook up. You know he still loves Sarah, in his own fucked up way and though you don’t regret where you woke up, you know you’ll just be annoyed if you have to deal with his issues this early in the morning with this bad of a hangover.

You’ve almost successfully left the large mansion, quietly walking through the living room to the front door when a voice remarks dryly, “Really, y/n? I thought you were better than my sister’s leftovers.”

Inhaling through your nose and out your mouth sharply, you spin on your heel to face Rafe with a blank expression on your face. He sits at the kitchen island, bare-chested with his hat on backwards, casually eating a bowl of cereal. The thought of why exactly Rafe is sitting half naked in Topper’s kitchen, eating Topper’s cereal briefly flashes through your mind but you decide you don’t care. “What do you care Rafe?” you ask, only half interested in his response. There’s a moment of silence, and you pick at your fingernails rather than meet his gaze.

“I’m just saying, I thought you were better than that,” he shrugs, bringing another spoonful to his mouth.

You roll your eyes, already tired of the conversation, “And who, pray tell, is better for me?”

“Me of course,” he smirks at you, and you huff out an annoyed laugh and raise an eyebrow silently asking him to explain. “Come on princess, I know your parents want you to marry up. ‘m your best option on this island”.

Mildly annoyed, you roll your eyes and turn back towards the front door, eager to leave this conversation behind. “C’mon baby, we both know how this thing ends, with you on my arm as the perfect trophy wife.”

There was a time those words might have brought butterflies in your stomach. Growing up best friends with Sarah meant you also grew up with Rafe, and you used to have the biggest crush on him. Forbidden by Sarah after a late night game of truth or dare, you didn’t use to mind when your mother would spout off about Rafe being the perfect boy for you. He used to look out for you like he did for Sarah. But that was a long time ago, and he no longer cared about either of you anymore and you had to admit you couldn’t remember why you had ever thought him anything but repulsive. That was before the drugs and the untethered rage that always rests just under the surface of his skin, ready to be unleashed at the smallest slight. You might have married the little boy with the gap toothed smile who once punched Jacob Kane when you were in the second grade and he wouldn’t stop bothering you, but this Rafe wasn’t good for anything beyond a quick meeting in the dark.

If you had been able to feel anything, you might have snapped back at him, but you had no energy and honestly all you wanted was to shower in your own shower and collapse in your own bed, so you ignored his comment and slipped out the door.

It was a quick walk back to your house, and you snuck in quietly through the front door hoping no one was home and your dreams of slumbering until the early afternoon could be realized. Unfortunately, your mother sat on the cream colored chaise in the sitting room, clearly anticipating your arrival. Her eyes quickly scanned your appearance, your manolos held by the straps in your right hand, your sex hair and décolletage you were sure was covered in bites and bruises caused by overeager lips, before sighing.

“Y/n, darling, you have to stop this silly behaviour and settle down. Boys aren’t going to want to lock you down if they’ve already had you.” She criticizes, effectively slut-shaming you. You roll your eyes at that, briefly wondering if the old wives tale was true and you’d end up with your eyes stuck like that. You decide you don’t mind, it would save you some time as your base reaction to most interactions is to roll them.

“I had a rough night mom, I’d like to go back to bed,” you tell her as you try to slip past her. A cold hand circles your wrist, stiletto tipped manicure digging slightly into the skin stopping you from moving any further.

“I’m serious, y/n, you’re better than this.” She throws the same words Rafe had at you. Exasperated and exhausted you rip your wrist from her grasp and head to the stairs. “We’re not done talking about this!” she shouts but you ignore her and continue towards your nice shower and bed.

Rolling over to an empty bed several hours later, you grumble as you try to identify the source of your wakeup call. Cursing as you smack your arm against your side table, you finally manage to grab your ringing cell phone. Seeing RC flash as the contact calling, you groan loudly, before hitting the decline button and rolling back over. A minute later your phone chimes again, indicating a voice mail.

You figure there’s no point in drawing out the inevitable, so you unlock the phone and listen the voicemail Rafe left. He’s invited you to hang out with him and his friends on his dad’s yacht. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’ve sent him a text to say you’d be there in an hour. Despite there being no love lost between you and Rafe, you really don’t have any better options and maybe if you tell your mom who you’re hanging out with she’ll get off your back and not subject you to The Lecture. You and Sarah used to laugh and joke about The Lecture, about how being a Y/L/N means being perfect and obtaining a perfect husband. The two of you would mock your mother, exaggerating her southern drawl that slipped out as she lectured you on the importance of propriety and ‘leaving something to the imagination’.

As you slip on a navy sundress with a deep neckline, you laugh, thinking to yourself that there’s not much left to leave to the imagination. You take the time to curl the ends of your hair to create a bouncy wave and apply a few coats of waterproof mascara and lip gloss. The humid heat of the OBX keeps your makeup routine light in the summer.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” Shit. Your dad’s home, he knows you stayed out all night, and he’s pissed. You don’t think your mom told him the full story, because he’s not frothing at the mouth mad, just his typical disappointed mad.

“Rafe invited a couple of friends to hang out on his dad’s yacht, daddy,” you reply back, not meeting his eyes.

You can tell your dad disapproves, because the lines between his eyebrows are more pronounced with his narrowed eyes. As he starts to give you what you’re sure is an impassioned lecture, your mother pops up out of nowhere, gushing, “Rafe? Well of course you can go sweetie, isn’t that right hon?” she turns to your dad, a single eyebrow raised daring him to defy her. Your parents are the ultimate power couple, wielding power and guilt over each other almost as easily as they try to do to you.

He sighs, realizing the fight with his vengeful wife isn’t worth the lesson you’re not going to learn anyway and nods, “Alright, just be back for supper, we’re going to sit down as a family tonight. And tell Sarah we said hi.”

If either parent noticed your stiffened back, they don’t comment on it. You hadn’t told them that Sarah dumped you like yesterday’s news just yet. Why blow a perfect cover story? Again, the lack of guilt should probably concern you, but you’re more focused on the very expensive, very good quality wine that you know is waiting for you on the Cameron’s yacht.

An hour later, you’re sitting between a very uncomfortable Topper and a disinterested Kelce with a full wineglass in your left hand. Your right hand slides your sunglasses back onto your eyes to shield them from the harsh sunlight that beats down directly on your face.

You can’t find the energy to strike up a conversation with either of them, and they don’t seem very inclined to start one either, so you turn your head to the side and look out at the water until you see a familiar beat up boat approaching. You visibly tense as your eyes lock on your blonde former best friend laughing with her arm around John B as their stupid friends talk and laugh around them. “You okay, y/n?” Kelce finally speaks, noticing your change in posture.

“Never better,” you drily reply moving to turn your head back to the other side of the yacht, as if the other boat on the water didn’t exist at all. Your eyes briefly flicker to the other blond on the boat, taut muscles on display beyond the ratty cut-off tank top as the pogue known as JJ attempts to wrestle with his friend Pope. You feel a drop in your stomach that perplexes you as your eyes scan his sunkissed skin. Startled, you turn your head quickly and take a huge sip of your wine.

You anticipated some sort of confrontation, maybe a thrown insult, but their boat simply eclipsed the yacht and they continued on their way. You were annoyed by the concerned look that Kelce threw your way after they had left, so you downed your glass and grabbed Rafe’s hand and all but dragged him inside the cabin.

The second the door shuts behind you, you’re on him, mouths mashing in a hungry kiss. He smirks against your mouth and leads you into the bathroom and proceeds to rid you of your clothes.

As you’re letting Rafe Cameron fuck you in the bathroom of his yacht, your mind can’t help but think you’re fucking over Sarah, too.

“Fuck baby, you feel so good,” he praises in your ear as he thrusts into you from behind. You don’t even have the energy to fake a moan, you just lean your head back against his shoulder.

When he’s finished, you simply slip your dress back on, refill your glass and sit back between Topper and Kelce as if they didn’t just hear you hook up with their best friend.

You go to bed early that night after a “nice family dinner” that consists of back-handed compliments and your mother fishing for details about your time on the yacht. You don’t think she’d be too pleased about letting Rafe ‘have you’ before ‘locking you down’, so you keep it to a minimum. Both parents drill it into your head that as a Y/L/N, you’re held to a higher standard than your peers. Perfect grades, perfect life, perfect daughter. You don’t know how to tell them you don’t even feel human anymore, so you smile and nod as they pester and nag. Your little sister sits quietly the whole time, looking at you with an emotion you can’t quite decipher.

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glittergummicandypeach · 5 years ago

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Fake Hafez: How a supreme Persian poet of love was erased | Religion | Al Jazeera

This is the time of the year where every day I get a handful of requests to track down the original, authentic versions of some famed Muslim poet, usually Hafez or Rumi. The requests start off the same way: "I am getting married next month, and my fiance and I wanted to celebrate our Muslim background, and we have always loved this poem by Hafez. Could you send us the original?" Or, "My daughter is graduating this month, and I know she loves this quote from Hafez. Can you send me the original so I can recite it to her at the ceremony we are holding for her?"

It is heartbreaking to have to write back time after time and say the words that bring disappointment: The poems that they have come to love so much and that are ubiquitous on the internet are forgeries. Fake. Made up. No relationship to the original poetry of the beloved and popular Hafez of Shiraz.

How did this come to be? How can it be that about 99.9 percent of the quotes and poems attributed to one the most popular and influential of all the Persian poets and Muslim sages ever, one who is seen as a member of the pantheon of "universal" spirituality on the internet are ... fake? It turns out that it is a fascinating story of Western exotification and appropriation of Muslim spirituality.

Let us take a look at some of these quotes attributed to Hafez:

Even after all this time, the sun never says to the earth, 'you owe me.' Look what happens with a love like that! It lights up the whole sky.

You like that one from Hafez? Too bad. Fake Hafez.

Your heart and my heart Are very very old friends.

Like that one from Hafez too? Also Fake Hafez.

Fear is the cheapest room in the house. I would like to see you living in better conditions.

Beautiful. Again, not Hafez.

And the next one you were going to ask about? Also fake. So where do all these fake Hafez quotes come from?

An American poet, named Daniel Ladinsky, has been publishing books under the name of the famed Persian poet Hafez for more than 20 years. These books have become bestsellers. You are likely to find them on the shelves of your local bookstore under the "Sufism" section, alongside books of Rumi, Khalil Gibran, Idries Shah, etc.

It hurts me to say this, because I know so many people love these "Hafez" translations. They are beautiful poetry in English, and do contain some profound wisdom. Yet if you love a tradition, you have to speak the truth: Ladinsky's translations have no earthly connection to what the historical Hafez of Shiraz, the 14th-century Persian sage, ever said.

He is making it up. Ladinsky himself admitted that they are not "translations", or "accurate", and in fact denied having any knowledge of Persian in his 1996 best-selling book, I Heard God Laughing. Ladinsky has another bestseller, The Subject Tonight Is Love.

Persians take poetry seriously. For many, it is their singular contribution to world civilisation: What the Greeks are to philosophy, Persians are to poetry. And in the great pantheon of Persian poetry where Hafez, Rumi, Saadi, 'Attar, Nezami, and Ferdowsi might be the immortals, there is perhaps none whose mastery of the Persian language is as refined as that of Hafez.

In the introduction to a recent book on Hafez, I said that Rumi (whose poetic output is in the tens of thousands) comes at you like you an ocean, pulling you in until you surrender to his mystical wave and are washed back to the ocean. Hafez, on the other hand, is like a luminous diamond, with each facet being a perfect cut. You cannot add or take away a word from his sonnets. So, pray tell, how is someone who admits that they do not know the language going to be translating the language?

Ladinsky is not translating from the Persian original of Hafez. And unlike some "versioners" (Coleman Barks is by far the most gifted here) who translate Rumi by taking the Victorian literal translations and rendering them into American free verse, Ladinsky's relationship with the text of Hafez's poetry is nonexistent. Ladinsky claims that Hafez appeared to him in a dream and handed him the English "translations" he is publishing:

"About six months into this work I had an astounding dream in which I saw Hafiz as an Infinite Fountaining Sun (I saw him as God), who sang hundreds of lines of his poetry to me in English, asking me to give that message to 'my artists and seekers'."

It is not my place to argue with people and their dreams, but I am fairly certain that this is not how translation works. A great scholar of Persian and Urdu literature, Christopher Shackle, describes Ladinsky's output as "not so much a paraphrase as a parody of the wondrously wrought style of the greatest master of Persian art-poetry." Another critic, Murat Nemet-Nejat, described Ladinsky's poems as what they are: original poems of Ladinsky masquerading as a "translation."

I want to give credit where credit is due: I do like Ladinsky's poetry. And they do contain mystical insights. Some of the statements that Ladinsky attributes to Hafez are, in fact, mystical truths that we hear from many different mystics. And he is indeed a gifted poet. See this line, for example:

I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness the astonishing light of your own being.

That is good stuff. Powerful. And many mystics, including the 20th-century Sufi master Pir Vilayat, would cast his powerful glance at his students, stating that he would long for them to be able to see themselves and their own worth as he sees them. So yes, Ladinsky's poetry is mystical. And it is great poetry. So good that it is listed on Good Reads as the wisdom of "Hafez of Shiraz." The problem is, Hafez of Shiraz said nothing like that. Daniel Ladinsky of St Louis did.

The poems are indeed beautiful. They are just not ... Hafez. They are ... Hafez-ish? Hafez-esque? So many of us wish that Ladinsky had just published his work under his own name, rather than appropriating Hafez's.

Ladinsky's "translations" have been passed on by Oprah, the BBC, and others. Government officials have used them on occasions where they have wanted to include Persian speakers and Iranians. It is now part of the spiritual wisdom of the East shared in Western circles. Which is great for Ladinsky, but we are missing the chance to hear from the actual, real Hafez. And that is a shame.

So, who was the real Hafez (1315-1390)?

He was a Muslim, Persian-speaking sage whose collection of love poetry rivals only Mawlana Rumi in terms of its popularity and influence. Hafez's given name was Muhammad, and he was called Shams al-Din (The Sun of Religion). Hafez was his honorific because he had memorised the whole of the Quran. His poetry collection, the Divan, was referred to as Lesan al-Ghayb (the Tongue of the Unseen Realms).

A great scholar of Islam, the late Shahab Ahmed, referred to Hafez's Divan as: "the most widely-copied, widely-circulated, widely-read, widely-memorized, widely-recited, widely-invoked, and widely-proverbialized book of poetry in Islamic history." Even accounting for a slight debate, that gives some indication of his immense following. Hafez's poetry is considered the very epitome of Persian in the Ghazal tradition.

Hafez's worldview is inseparable from the world of Medieval Islam, the genre of Persian love poetry, and more. And yet he is deliciously impossible to pin down. He is a mystic, though he pokes fun at ostentatious mystics. His own name is "he who has committed the Quran to heart", yet he loathes religious hypocrisy. He shows his own piety while his poetry is filled with references to intoxication and wine that may be literal or may be symbolic.

The most sublime part of Hafez's poetry is its ambiguity. It is like a Rorschach psychological test in poetry. The mystics see it as a sign of their own yearning, and so do the wine-drinkers, and the anti-religious types. It is perhaps a futile exercise to impose one definitive meaning on Hafez. It would rob him of what makes him ... Hafez.

The tomb of Hafez in Shiraz, a magnificent city in Iran, is a popular pilgrimage site and the honeymoon destination of choice for many Iranian newlyweds. His poetry, alongside that of Rumi and Saadi, are main staples of vocalists in Iran to this day, including beautiful covers by leading maestros like Shahram Nazeri and Mohammadreza Shajarian.

Like many other Persian poets and mystics, the influence of Hafez extended far beyond contemporary Iran and can be felt wherever Persianate culture was a presence, including India and Pakistan, Central Asia, Afghanistan, and the Ottoman realms. Persian was the literary language par excellence from Bengal to Bosnia for almost a millennium, a reality that sadly has been buried under more recent nationalistic and linguistic barrages.

Part of what is going on here is what we also see, to a lesser extent, with Rumi: the voice and genius of the Persian speaking, Muslim, mystical, sensual sage of Shiraz are usurped and erased, and taken over by a white American with no connection to Hafez's Islam or Persian tradition. This is erasure and spiritual colonialism. Which is a shame, because Hafez's poetry deserves to be read worldwide alongside Shakespeare and Toni Morrison, Tagore and Whitman, Pablo Neruda and the real Rumi, Tao Te Ching and the Gita, Mahmoud Darwish, and the like.

In a 2013 interview, Ladinsky said of his poems published under the name of Hafez: "Is it Hafez or Danny? I don't know. Does it really matter?" I think it matters a great deal. There are larger issues of language, community, and power involved here.

It is not simply a matter of a translation dispute, nor of alternate models of translations. This is a matter of power, privilege and erasure. There is limited shelf space in any bookstore. Will we see the real Rumi, the real Hafez, or something appropriating their name? How did publishers publish books under the name of Hafez without having someone, anyone, with a modicum of familiarity check these purported translations against the original to see if there is a relationship? Was there anyone in the room when these decisions were made who was connected in a meaningful way to the communities who have lived through Hafez for centuries?

Hafez's poetry has not been sitting idly on a shelf gathering dust. It has been, and continues to be, the lifeline of the poetic and religious imagination of tens of millions of human beings. Hafez has something to say, and to sing, to the whole world, but bypassing these tens of millions who have kept Hafez in their heart as Hafez kept the Quran in his heart is tantamount to erasure and appropriation.

We live in an age where the president of the United States ran on an Islamophobic campaign of "Islam hates us" and establishing a cruel Muslim ban immediately upon taking office. As Edward Said and other theorists have reminded us, the world of culture is inseparable from the world of politics. So there is something sinister about keeping Muslims out of our borders while stealing their crown jewels and appropriating them not by translating them but simply as decor for poetry that bears no relationship to the original. Without equating the two, the dynamic here is reminiscent of white America's endless fascination with Black culture and music while continuing to perpetuate systems and institutions that leave Black folk unable to breathe.

There is one last element: It is indeed an act of violence to take the Islam out of Rumi and Hafez, as Ladinsky has done. It is another thing to take Rumi and Hafez out of Islam. That is a separate matter, and a mandate for Muslims to reimagine a faith that is steeped in the world of poetry, nuance, mercy, love, spirit, and beauty. Far from merely being content to criticise those who appropriate Muslim sages and erase Muslims' own presence in their legacy, it is also up to us to reimagine Islam where figures like Rumi and Hafez are central voices. This has been part of what many of feel called to, and are pursuing through initiatives like Illuminated Courses.

Oh, and one last thing: It is Haaaaafez, not Hafeeeeez. Please.

The views expressed in this article are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera's editorial stance.

This content was originally published here.

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full-of-roman-angst-trash · 4 years ago

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The Nerd and The Idiot

@yeet-ceit @unsympathetic-teach Here you go. Some nice U!Logan

TW: Unsympathetic Logan, Toxic Relationship, Emotionally Abusive Relationship, Manipulation, Gaslighting. Unhealthy Dieting, Injury, Caps, Arguing, Cursing, No Happy Ending.

Pairings: Toxic Logince, Very Minor Background Moxiety.

Word Count: 2228

*****************

Roman and Logan always butt heads, both when they are and aren’t recording. They were the ones that bickered the most out of all the other sides. So imagine Roman’s surprise when he realizes that he has fallen in love with his nemesis. He’s not sure how it happened or when, all he knew is that he had these feelings.

He had no idea how to approach them, so he did just what he does best, act. He acted like the feelings weren’t there and continued to argue with Logan. He didn’t see the point in acting on his feelings since he was sure Logan hated him. And that’s how things stayed for a while.

~~~

I slowly walk out of my room and start making my way to the kitchen. I have just finished a long day of working and I am in desperate need of food. As I walk down the stairs I notice Virgil and Patton in the living room cuddling on the couch having a movie night.

The two of them have been dating for a while now, ever since the Q&A episode. To be honest, at first I wasn’t that big of a fan of their relationship. I didn't think it would work out. I was proven wrong though, and now, I’m a bit jealous of their relationship. They seem so happy, I wish Logan and I could be like that.

I hold back a sigh as I walk past the living room and into the kitchen. I freeze the second I get there though when I see Logan. He’s leaning the counter, a coffee in one hand and the other holding a pen. He seems to be doing a Sudoku puzzle.

I can’t help but blush seeing him like that. With the sun peering through the window makes his brown hair and eyes glimmer and his skin glows. Unable to look away, I just stand there and admire him.

“Roman!” Logan’s voice snaps me out of my trance-like state.

I must have been staring for a while since he seems to have finished his puzzle and was now staring at me with a slightly agitated expression.

“Oh, um, sorry, I spaced out a bit,” I clear my throat and force my blush away, “Were you saying something, nerd?”

He rolls his eyes, “As a matter of fact, I was. I requested an answer to my question of if we could talk for a bit.”

“If this is about the script for the new episode, I just comple-”

“This isn’t about the script,” He cuts me off, “I have something I want to confess and it involves you.”

I raise a brow, slightly wary, “Oh? Um, okay?”

He takes a deep breath and straightens his tie, “Since I’m not well with these sort of situations, I have decided to use the words of a famous poet.”

At this point, I am beyond confused. A famous poet? Is he going to read me some poetry? Why?

He takes another deep breath and starts reciting a poem by memory.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;

Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”

Shakespeare's sonnet 18.

The second the realization hits me of what poem that was, I feel my face turn red.

“L-Logan, you do realize that that poem is about love, r-right?”

He nods, he also seems to be blushing, “Yes. That’s the whole point. Was it not clear that I was trying to verbalize my romantic feelings for you?”

I flush red. My thoughts are all over the place and I’m not sure how to respond.

“Roman?” Logan’s voice is heavy with concern, “Are you okay? It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way.”

I take a deep breath and gather my thoughts, “I’m okay. I actually feel the same way.”

He smiles and I can’t help but blush more.

His smile is so beautiful.

“So, does this mean that we are now in a romantic relationship?

I nod, “If you want to be, yes.”

He kisses my forehead, “Well, I’ll see you later, I have some work to do. I can’t wait to see your script.”

With that he walks off. And, I can’t help but giggle, my heart feels like it’s going to burst with happiness.

We announced our relationship to the others shortly after and they all congratulated us.

The first few months were a paradise. For as emotionless as Logan acts, he’s actually really sweet and loving.

He constantly made sure that I didn’t overwork myself by coming into my room and pulling me away from my work if I was in there for too long. He made sure I ate and stayed hydrated by bringing me food and water. When I was sad he would cuddle me and shower me with affection until I felt better.

It was just amazing.

But then “Making Some Changes” came along...

~~~

“Roman, my starlight, please let me in.”

I hug my pillow tighter, crying into it harder.

“G-Go away!”

“El príncipe es estupido.”

“It is my understanding that you speak Spanish, so I really wanted to help you get it through your thick, self-aggrandizing skull in both languages. You are vapid and slow-witted.”

The words kept repeating in my brain and it hurt. It hurt so much. I can’t face Logan. I don’t want to.

Even though we started dating we still bickered from time to time. However, our name calling went from hurtful to playful. We made sure to avoid actually hurting each other.

This however... wasn't playful....

Not only did he use my love and passion of the Spanish language, something that I learned to impress him, against me. But he also called me vapid and slow-witted! And now he expects me to just forgive him!

I hear him sigh.

“Roman,” His voice is soft and collected, making a shiver go down my spine, “I’m so sorry. I honestly didn’t mean to hurt you. I was under the assumption that my remark was going to be interpreted as a lighthearted tease like I wanted it to come across as. I love you and I am so sorry.”

I slowly sit up and wipe my tears, “R-Really? A-Are you telling the truth?”

“I promise I am telling the truth, my beautiful prince.”

The nickname makes me blush and giggle. I stand up and walk to the door. The second I open the door, I throw myself into Logan’s arms.

He hugs me back tightly and we share a tender kiss.

~~~

After that accident, things got better again. We had small arguments here and there, most of which were my fault. At least that’s what Logan said and he’s never wrong.

Logan started helping me fix my mistakes and imperfections. He made sure I didn’t step out of line or get too excited. He kept my ego and confidence in check. He made sure I concentrated on my work and spoke less. He even helped me keep a consistent diet so that I could keep the ideal body type!

It was a bit tiring from time to time, but if it made Logan proud of me and if it made me better; then it’s okay.

I would be lying if I said that Logan didn’t have…. “strange”.... behaviors.….

He’s always been quick tempered, but it seems to have gotten way worse. He tends to get mad at me a lot which is when the arguments happen. He also likes using a lot of fancy vocabulary that I don’t quite understand and when I ask him to make it simpler; he just says that I should just agree with him.

He’s also a bit controlling, but whatever. Everyone has some flaws. Besides, he’s still really sweet and loving.

~~~

The next huge hit happened nearly a year later.

Thomas woke up lacking his usual blessed touch of motivation. And if I am being honest with thyself, I was the one bestowing this curse on our lovely host. I didn't mean to, of course! But what can I say, a prince wasn't feeling all that prince-like when he awoke.

So, I was trying to figure out how to solve my dilemma when suddenly I felt a stinging pain on my head as a strong force pulled my hair. Suddenly I am brought up in front of Thomas and Logan.

Did Logan pull my hair? It was probably just an accident! ....Right....?

I am quickly caught up on why Logan summoned me. An argument breaks out rather quickly since apparently we have very conflicting points of views as to what we think Thomas should do with his life.

And then out of nowhere, his chart comes along.

0.5 percent... 7.2 MINUTES... Not even 10 minutes...

At the end of our episode I felt defeated. Neither of us lost the argument according to Thomas. But I lost emotionally.

“Ro, love, please let me in.”

“NO! FUCK OFF LOGAN!”

I press my back against the door, I’m not crying, not even tearing up. I’m just annoyed and offended.

Not this time! I will not just forgive him like last time! If he really thinks that I’m not even important enough for 10 minutes of the day then fine! I won’t bother him anymore!

“Roman, my beautiful rose, I’m so sorry. I was just angry and being unreasonable. I shouldn’t have done what I did. I promise that I didn’t mean it. You are so much more than 10 minutes. So please, let me in. You’re being a bit dramatic.

I take a shaky deep breath, “Is that what you really think?”

Am I being over dramatic? Maybe I am...

“Of course, love!” He responded instantly, not an ounce of hesitation in his voice.

I slowly move away from the door, “You can come in.”

He slowly walks in and closes the door behind him. He walks over to me and pulls me into a hug.

“How about we cuddle? So that I can make it up to you.”

I giggle softly and nod, “I would love that.”

~~~

I wince as Remus presses the ice pack to my eye.

“Sorry,” He mumbles quietly.

I shake my head a bit, “It’s fine, I know it was an accident.”

For a moment he stays quiet.

“You need to break up with him.”

His sudden straightforwardness catches me off guard, “W-what?!”

“You heard me,” He says in a serious voice, one he uses when someone is in danger, “You need to break up with Logan.”

His gaze is so cold that it forces me to look away.

“Roman! You can’t continue being with him!” Remus raise his voice, making me flinch

My stomach feels like it’s in knots, “Remus... Stop....”

“NO! Don’t think I haven’t noticed how much you have changed since being with him!”

A sudden urge to throw up makes its way up my throat, “I-”

“And now you come to me with a black eye! That HE gave you!”

“IT WAS MY FAULT!”

I finally meet Remus’ gaze, desperately holding back tears.

“IF I HADN’T PROVOKED HIM BY CALLING HIM STUPID THEN HE WOULDN’T HAVE LOST HIS TEMPER!”

I see Remus bite his lip.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME!? YOU CALLED HIM STUPID AS A PLAYFUL TEASE! HE HAD NO RIGHT TO RETALIATE WITH VIOLENCE! HE SHOULDN’T BE WILLING TO HURT YOU THAT EASILY!”

At this point, I’m crying.

“YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO JUDGE MY RELATIONSHIP! STOP TALKING BAD ABOUT LOGAN! YOU HARDLY KNOW HIM! HE WAS JUST STRESSED AND DIDN’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO!”

He groans.

“OH PLEASE! YOU’RE SUCH AN IDIOT ROMAN! DON’T YOU GET IT! YOUR RELATIONSHIP ISN’T HEALTHY! BUT FINE! IF YOU WON'T LISTEN TO ME THEN WHATEVER! FUCK YOU! DEFENDING AN ABUSIVE ASSHOLE INSTEAD OF LISTENING TO YOUR TWIN WHO JUST TOOK CARE OF YOU!”

He scoffs before sinking down.

I punch my wall in anger.

He doesn’t know what he’s talking about! Me and Logan are fine. Our relationship is perfect! He loves me and I know he does!

I hear a soft knock on my door.

“My prince, may I come in?”

It’s Logan!

He walks in and walks over to the bed. He sits down on the edge and smiles softly, “Hey, how’s your eye?

I smile softly, “It’s alright. A bit swollen, but I’ll be okay.

He smiles and hugs me, gently laying us down and holding me close, “That’s good. Hey, look, I’m sorry for hitting you in the eye like that. I honestly didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s okay, mi amor,” I snuggle up to him. “I know you didn’t mean it,” I bury my face in his chest.

He gently cradles my head.

“Good.”

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skyblue-ringpops · 5 years ago

Text

Newsies in other time periods

If the Newsies characters weren’t in 1899, here’s the time periods I think they would best fit!

Jack: The Renaissance. To be more specific, probably the mid 1400s to early 1500s since that was around the time the more notable artists lived. I feel like he’d also be heavily involved in the art world, since he is an artist. He’d also have Michelangelo energy. I also feel like he’d be involved in philosophy, mainly focusing on independence and paving your own path rather than following the examples of others.

Davey: Ancient Greece. He has the scholarly vibes. He would be a philosopher as well as a writer and teacher. He would probably be heavily involved in all aspects of society, such as politics, education, philosophy, etc.. He seems like the guy that everyone would look up to and would go down in history for his knowledge and thoughts. He has Athena vibes

Katherine: I honestly don’t want to move her to a different period. She fits the times so well. However, if I have to choose, I’d pick the 1920s. She would be heavily involved in suffrage, of course. And she would still be a reporter. I don’t think she would be a flapper herself, but she would greatly admire their lifestyle and always write articles praising them.

Crutchie: America’s colonial times. I don’t know why, he just gives me colonist vibes. I feel like he’d be that kid that’s always pranking people, but nobody ever believed it was him because he’d seem innocent. Like, he’d happily agree to go to church with his parents, but would release a squirrel mid service. You know those ghost stories about colonial boys throwing stuff and making random noises just to bother people? That’s Crutchie.

Race: The 1930s. Race would probably be just like Bonnie and Clyde. He’d be a robber for sure. And he’d be good at it. However, he is dumb, and everyone knows it. So nobody thinks he’s guilty. He’s not smart enough to get away with robbery! But he is, and he’s amazing at it.

Spot: The 1960s. He just screams The Outsiders. He’s a greaser for sure. Big Dally vibes. He’s the cool kid that everyone looks up to, and they all want to be part of his “gang”. And yes, he does have a rival gang. His gang is basically the same energy as the Brooklyn newsies.

Albert: American Revolution. He’s a kid, so he isn’t entirely sure about what’s going on. However, he is definitely anti-British, partially just to say he is. He’d get involved in everything he could, just to say he was there. He even watches the battles, which his father (who probably fights in the war) doesn’t appreciate.

Sarah: The 1940s. She has movie star vibes for some reason. I feel like she’d be a famous actress, but humble. She wouldn’t use her money to buy fancy things...until she used it to help her family. She would live a more glamorous lifestyle later on, but family comes first.

JoJo: 1500s England. He gives Henry VIII vibes for some reason, so he was definitely alive during his rule. And he did idolize him. He loved how he just made his own rules and wanted to be like that. Well...maybe without the killing his wives part. Maybe. I do feel like JoJo would be the son of a noble and constantly pretend he’s a prince.

Les: I feel like he, like Crutchie, would be in Colonial America. He’d be like Crutchie’s partner in crime. Yes, they’d be friends. It’d be chaotic. They would always prank people together. When Crutchie grows up and stops with his mischief, everyone’s relieved...until they remember Les exists. And Les is much more chaotic, since he was trained.

Romeo: Shakespearean era. He would go see Romeo and Juliet’s debut, and he’d love it. He’d be Shakespeare’s biggest fan and see all his plays. He’d reenact them and dream of being in one. But he can’t act. He recites Shakespeare’s sonnets to every girl he meets. He dreams of being a playwright himself, but he isn’t very good at them. He also makes up his own words, names, and phrases, but they never catch on.

Smalls: Russian Revolution. Remember, she is very chaotic. So she just runs around spreading chaos. And she is very much an anarchist. She is invested in the Romanov story and wants to find and befriend Anastasia. She also idolizes Rasputin. I mean...can you blame her?

Tommy Boy: Modern. He just has modern vibes. I feel like he’d be an athlete. He has big tough guy vibes. He’d probably play football, maybe hockey. And he would be amazing at it. I don’t really know about sports though, so I won’t get into detail about it. He would also retire to be the coach of the top college team.

Mush: 1920s. He would be very involved in the culture of the time. He’d be dancing all the time and if you need him, he’s probably at the speakeasy. He’d probably become a performer as well. He just loves a good time.

Oscar Delancey: 2005. He’d be an emo. It’s true, don’t deny it. He loves MCR. He wears black eyeliner. And he is feral. He probably likes metal too. He always says he’s not like other boys and it’s not a phase. He wants to be Pete Wentz.

Morris Delancey: Salem, Massachusetts, 1692. Yep, the Salem Witch Trials. And he would be tried. He was probably accused for no reason, thought it was a joke, said something stupid during his trial, and executed. I have no idea why he gives me witch vibes, but he does.

Henry: Again, modern. He’d own a small deli. It’s a family business. He’d been working there for as long as he could remember, and knows he’ll inherit it someday. Eventually, it begins to grow in popularity. One day, it becomes a famous deli.

Specs: Early America. He feels like the type to look up to Ben Franklin. He loves his inventions and wants to be a famous inventor himself one day. He starts creating random things out of whatever he can find in his home. They’re not very good at first, but progressively get better and better. One day, he achieves his dream of becoming an inventor.

Buttons: 17th or 18th century. He’d be the son of the town’s tailor and would often help out. He ended up being an amazing tailor as well, and everyone loved his work. He liked to add his own twist to things, so many people could recognize his work at a glance.

Finch: World War II. I feel like he would fight, and he’d do it by choice. An older relative, maybe a brother or his father, would be drafted, and that would inspire him to join as well. He’s a good fighter, and he’s very passionate about the causes, but doesn’t enjoy the war and can’t wait for it to end.

Elmer: 1980s. He just gives me 80s vibes. He’d always go on little adventures with his friends and siblings and act out his favorite movies. He especially likes the ones about kids like him that lived much cooler lives. Think E.T. and Goonies. He doesn’t want to be an actor in those movies, he wants to be a character.

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sincerelybluevase · 5 years ago

Note

Either Danvich or Danbecca. Any trope, possibly smut if that’s your thing

Careful, Madam

A/N: I’ve done it. I’ve written a scandalously smutty fic for a pair I’d never thought I’d write: Mrs Danvers and the I (Ich) from Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. I think it might well be the most smutty thing I have ever written, and I had a blast doing it! Hope you guys like it! Thanks to Nita for giving me the idea and encouraging me, and thanks to Illa, too!

I had just gone up to my room to get dressed for Manderley’s fancy dress ball when the knock on my door came. I sat next to the box with my dress, surrounded by tissue paper, dressed in nothing but my underwear and slip.

“Come in!”

The door opened with a soft snick as I plunged my hand in the box with my wig and held it up to the light. “Look, Clarice, isn’t it lovely? This little curl here has gotten flattened, but there’s still time to fluff it out again, don’t you think?”

“Certainly, Madam.” The voice was cold and soft, a dead, mechanical thing, the voice of an automaton. I jumped to my feet, clutching the wig against my chest. Mrs Danvers looked at me with those strange, fierce eyes of hers, a little smile tugging at the corners of her pale lips. “Careful, Madam; you’ll crush those curls.”

Little cold hands travelled across my spine. Gooseflesh rippled over my arms. “You really shouldn’t be here,” I said stupidly. Then, realising how that sounded, I added, “There must be so much for you to do still, Mrs Danvers, that you couldn’t possibly waste your time with me. If you’ll be so kind as to send Clarice up, she’ll help me get dressed.” I wished my throat and cheeks wouldn’t flush so terribly, and my voice not sound like that of a little girl.

But Mrs Danvers kept standing there, one hand around the doorknob, the other one playing with the stuff of her dress. I did not know what she wanted of me. She kept her eyes trained on my face, and I did not know whether to be grateful for the fact she did not look at my body, or to squirm under that piercing, superior gaze of hers. In the end I stooped to pick up the box in which the wig had come. I placed it on my dresser, simply to have something to do, and knocked one of my brushes off. Immediately Mrs Danvers glided through the room and took it in her hand before I could pick it back up again.

“Thank you,” I said, and took it from her. Her hand was cold. I sat down in front of the mirror and began to comb my hair, humming a little tune, as if I was not wildly excited, as if I did this every day.

“You should put on the dress before the wig, Madam. You’ll have to pin up your hair, or else strands of it will peek out.” She stepped behind me and took a lock of hair between her long, lean fingers. “Like so,” she said, and twisted the hair into a little curl. She pressed it against my scalp, reached for a bobby pin, and secured it carefully. Her touch was deliberate, precise. I looked at the reflection of her hands. They were quite beautiful, I saw; no amount of hard work could destroy that elegant taper to her fingers, or those slender, carefully-trimmed nails. These were hands that could train up orchids, wash the dust out of the fold of a china cupid, embroider initials into silky scraps of handkerchiefs. I wondered why I had never realised she had such good hands before. Mine were ugly in comparison, grubby and broad, the hands of a schoolgirl. I stared at my ragged nails. Even if I stopped biting them, they would never be long and lovely.

“Mrs de Winter once hosted a play here,” Mrs Danvers said, pinning another twist of hair in place. “Shakespeare. She had an appetite for him, knew half a dozen parts by heart, and many more monologues. She chose Twelfth Night. Mr de Winter would have loved to see her play Desdemona – Othello has always been a favourite of his – but my lady wouldn’t have it. She wished to play Viola. She adored dressing in britches, you see. She hadn’t cut her hair then, so we ordered a wig for her. We had to use so many pins to keep her hair in place. I remember her pulling off the wig during the party she hosted afterwards, and she shed pins like a pine sheds needles. It made her laugh, but then my mistress loved to laugh.” Her voice had lost that dead quality, that grating monotony. She spoke quite freely now, quite quickly.

Rebecca, with her wild cloud of hair and her lovely ways, who was so clever she could recite Shakespeare by heart. I had never had a head for poetry and plays. I tried to remember the sonnets I had been forced to learn at school, but the only things that I managed to dredge up were nursery rhymes, Humpty Dumpty, that sort of thing. Rebecca was beauty, brains, and breeding. I was nothing.

A flash of resentment made me frown. These were not the thoughts I was supposed to have, not tonight. For one evening, I wanted to feel sophisticated, smart, lovely. I wanted to be taken out of my web of shyness, inferiority, gaucherie, and here Mrs Danvers was hemming me in again.

“Thank you, Mrs Danvers, you’ve been very helpful. I’ll make sure to tell Clarice how to do the rest of my hair. It’ll be good for her to know.”

Still she would not leave. She pinned another curl into place. “Clarice would not do it properly, madam,” she said. Her fingers had warmed, and there was something pleasant in the feel of them on my scalp, in her sure, strong touch. When my mother brushed my hair as a child, it had made me so relaxed I had often felt loose-jointed, like a puppet with its strings cut. Once, I had even fallen asleep as she had washed my hair, my head lolling against her arm.

I remembered then that Maxim used to brush Rebecca’s hair for her, and felt a twinge of anguish. He never bothered with my hair. I wished he would. I craved intimacy between us, deft little touches that spoke of mutual love. Maxim hardly ever touched me. Only when we were in the library and I sat at his knees did he stroke my head, doing it absent-mindedly as he read his newspaper, and at those moments I often thought that it did not matter much that it was me he was caressing; he would have fondled Jasper in much the same way.

“There,” Mrs Danvers said, clipping the final lock into place. She touched a little wisp of baby hair at the nape of my neck, and something low in my belly clenched. “These locks tend to be very sensitive. I can pin them up if you prefer, but they’ll be hidden by the wig.”

“Oh, please don’t bother. Thank you, Mrs Danvers, I’m sure Clarice wouldn’t be half as quick as you.” I wished the girl would come.

As if she had read my mind, Mrs Danvers said, “Mrs de Winter never allowed one of the maids to dress her. I’ve sent Clarice away.” Then, softer, her finger still lingering at my nape, “Why did you not ask me to dress you?”

I felt the blood beat in my throat. “Mrs Danvers, you shouldn’t have. You are far too busy, and I…” I don’t want you to see me, to touch me, because you always compare me to her, to Rebecca, I know you do, and then I feel so small and worthless that a part of me wishes I could cease to exist.

“I thought this was supposed to be our little secret,” she said. Her eyes found mine in the mirror. Her face was no longer like a dead thing, hollow and pale. Her cheeks were flushed now, and suddenly I could see that she had once been quite lovely, before grief had made her gaunt and emaciated, spanning her skin tightly around her skull. And as she looked at me, she kept tracing patterns on my neck, softly, tenderly, causing little stirrings inside me of… what? Longing? Desire?

Surely not! It was simply that I had not been touched for so long that the simple act of her hand fingering my hair, a very innocent act, business-like, transactional, seemed to my traitorous body to be imbued with great significance.

Confused, I stood, my hip jolting the dresser. “I must get dressed. I don’t want to keep Maxim waiting,” I said. With my hip smarting I gathered up the dress, dropped it, picked it up again. Mrs Danvers appeared at my elbow. “There’s too much clutter in your dressing room, Madam,” she said, swiftly taking the dress from me and draping it over her arm, “may we retire to your bedroom? The light is better there, too. When Mr de Winter had these rooms done up before your arrival, I told him this room was too small and dark to be a proper dressing room, but he insisted.”

Because he didn’t want to use Rebecca’s rooms. They’re haunted by too many memories, remembrances that must remain inviolate, sacred. That’s why he has tucked me away in here, in these inferior, second-rate rooms, I thought, and tasted something harsh and bitter at the back of my throat. To have something to do I wandered to Maxim’s bed and smoothed an imaginary fold out of the sheets. Had Mrs Danvers never been here, I might have been embarrassed about sleeping in twin beds. Rebecca had had a double bed in her room. She dressed in silk nightgowns, thin as gossamer; slipping into one must feel like covering oneself in a thin sheet of cool water. I could see her in my mind’s eye, that tall, slender figure clad in silk the colour of apricots, and Maxim, flicking the straps down her shoulders…

Mrs Danvers’ hand on my shoulder startled me. Instinctively I drew away from her. When I saw the look on her face, that harsh, gloating look, I wished I hadn’t. “Come, Madam. You must remove your slip. It would poke out above the bodice.”

I could cry, but I could not let her see my weakness, no matter how much she sensed it. I pulled my slip over my head, tossing it on the bed, not caring that it would crease, only wishing Mrs Danvers would not look at my belly, at the cheap brassiere I wore, at my white knickers with the fake lace.

She helped me put on the skirts, tugging them into place, her hands hot on my hips. That strange, secret place between my legs felt tight then, and I could not explain it, not really. I wished it would not smart so. It was degrading, how my body turned traitor against my mind, this lingering longing for touch and love coming alive under my housekeeper’s hands.

“They are slightly too big. Clarice must not have measured you right,” Mrs Danvers said, disapproval clouding her face.

“Maybe I’ve lost some weight,” I said, remembering how Maxim had commented on it, and Beatrice, too, saying it did not suit me to be so thin.

Mrs Danvers knelt down in front of me and drew out a little pouch from a pocket of her dress. It was a little sewing kit, two spools of thread (one black, one white), scissors, a set of needles, and a collection of pins. “Careful, or I might hurt you,” she warned me, and stuck some pins into the skirt, making it tighter. “I’ll take it in for you.”

“Oh, please don’t bother, I don’t mind, really I don’t…”

But she did not heed me. Her tongue was thin and very pink as she licked a piece of thread. She threaded her needle in one go, then set about taking in the skirt whilst I still wore it, working quickly, with stitches so small it was like fairy work. She was so close to me I could smell her, the scent of her soap, the laundry detergent the servants used for their clothing, and the sweet, intimate smell of her body. I felt her breath on my thighs, warm and even, and that space between my legs, the one I did not have a proper name for, contracted again. My legs felt very funny, very weak, and I had to put a hand on Mrs Danvers’ shoulders so as not to sway. The stuff of her dress felt queer, slippery, or perhaps my hand was simply damp. My heart was beating very hard.

Maxim has not lain with me in three weeks, I thought. I remembered the last time. I had nearly been asleep, and then he had crept to me, sitting down on the edge of the bed, causing the mattress to dip. He had found my face in the dark, and had kissed me in a strange, hungry, desperate way. He had slipped into the bed with me, rucking up my nightgown. When he entered me I had not been quite ready yet, and had cried out. “God, my little love, how tight you are,” he had murmured, and I had not known whether that pleased him or annoyed him, whether it was something a woman would take pride or shame in. I had hoped he would slow down, be tender, but my little cry had excited him somehow, for he had thrust into me harder, faster. It had been uncomfortable, painful, even. I had thought he had been near his climax, but he had been gaining stride, not losing it, his mouth on my throat, his teeth scraping my collarbone. And then, shamefully, I had felt a thrum of pleasure, very faint. He had touched my thigh, digging his fingers into my skin, leaving his prints, and that action had caused another ripple.

“Maxim,” I’d whispered, “please, Maxim, please…” but I had not known whether I was asking him to stop or to go on. It had not mattered anyway, for Maxim had spent himself in me then, grinding his hips against mine. I had touched his head, smoothing his hair, wishing he would kiss me, hold me, but then he had rolled away and padded back to his own bed. Soon, his breathing had evened out and I knew he was asleep. I had lain awake for a long time, though, feeling hollow and near to crying. Why, I wondered, had he come to me now? Why did not see my desire for his love writ naked on my face? It would have been better if he had embraced me, if he had told me he loved me. Then, I could have borne it, the shame of my own arousal, the way he had rutted with me although I had been half asleep. It would not have been so impersonal then.

“There,” Mrs Danvers said. She smoothed the fabric with her thumbs, tracing the blade of my hipbone, then straightened herself. She helped me put on the bodice next. She did up hooks and buttons without any hesitation, working quickly. “The stockings and shoes next, then your makeup, and finally the wig. Sit down, Madam.”

“Please don’t bother, I can do it myself.”

“You wouldn’t want them too loose or too tight, Madam.” I could imagine them slithering down my leg, tangling around my ankle so that I tripped over them. How mortified Maxim would be…

“It can’t be so hard, can it, to tie a stocking?”

“You’d be surprised, Madam.” And she put her hand on my shoulder and pushed down. It did not take much strength; my legs felt like reed, all hollow. I sank down on the bed. A trace of Maxim’s smell came to me. I plucked at a loose thread of his sheets, twisting it round my finger. Mrs Danvers touched the stockings tenderly. They were white and made to fit as they would have in the time of Caroline de Winter, meaning they fastened around the thigh with a ribbon. Mrs Danvers bunched up my skirt and pushed it up. I had not shaved my thighs. Did she see how long and thick the hair grew there, how my skin was pale like a frog’s belly and marbled with veins? My face flushed so quickly the tears sprang into my eyes.

She took my ankle in her hand, her fingers searing hot. Did she feel the gallop of my pulse in the spidery veins that lay so close under my skin? She tugged up the stocking over my ankle, my knee, and tied it quickly. She tried to wriggle a finger between my skin and the fabric and couldn’t.

“This way it is not so tight it will hurt, but not so loose it will come undone, should you dance.” She did not remove her hand but let it linger there, palm lightly resting on the strip of skin between stocking and knickers. Then, her finger twitched and slowly, very slowly, she touched the elastic of my knicker.

“Mrs Danvers…”

But she would not let me finish my sentence. Perhaps it was for the best; what would I have said? “When my mistress and Mr de Winter were just married, he rode her like the devil,” she said softly. “Her knickers were stained with the seeping of their lovemaking, and often torn. He went a little wild when he was with her, but then so many men did. She had that effect on them. I used to let her underwear soak in a bucket in my room and scrub out the stains, and then I’d sew them back together again. My father was a tailor; I know how to make my stitches invisible.”

I tried to imagine Mrs Danvers as a little girl, peering over her father’s shoulder to see how one stitched a rip, but I could not imagine her as a child.

“Mr de Winter hardly touches you.” This last a statement, not a question. I wondered, did Mrs Danvers question Clarice on my underwear, on whether my knickers needed mending? Or did she slip into my rooms herself and quest through the laundry, finding my undergarments and fingering them for stains? I had written to a shop in London and asked for a catalogue, but then Clarice had become my maid and she had not seemed to care how cheap my underwear was, and so I had not ordered any of the slippery, silky things I supposed women of my social standing should wear. I wished now that I had.

I did not what to say. She had not said it with any menace, but it was such a personal, intimate thing that I could not stay silent. “I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you think,” I whispered, the words coming out all choked. I swallowed thickly, balling my hands into fists. “There are moments my husband does want me, you know. Moments when he takes me, doing it roughly enough to bruise, leaving me marked as his.”

She stopped stroking me and looked up. Her eyes flashed something fierce. A little lock of hair had escaped her pins and curled against her temple. When she spoke, it trembled, and that little curl shot through with grey somehow made her more human than anything. “I don’t doubt it, Madam, but is that how you like it?”

Her question threw and flustered me both. “How I like it?” I repeated stupidly. I blinked, shook my head in confusion.

“Do you not know, Madam?” Her tongue darted between her lips, pink and wet. She stroked my thigh. “Do you like this?” She bent closer to me, her breath hot and quick, and kissed the inside of my leg, very softly. “And this?”

God forgive me, but I wanted her. I was aching with it. “Mrs Danvers,” I whispered.

She kissed me again, sucking my skin into her mouth. A hot thrill of arousal shot through me. “Mrs Danvers, you shouldn’t…”

She smiled; I could feel the tug of her lips against my skin. “Oh, Madam, I can smell you,” she murmured. “You’re wet with want, but are you willing?”

She tugged at my knickers. I raised my hips so she could pull them off. I don’t think I thought about it; I simply did as she wished me to. She smirked. “Yes,” she said, “I’d say you are willing indeed.” She dragged my underwear down my leg and tossed it on the ground. She pushed my legs apart, seated herself between them with her hands splayed on my thighs.

A sharp bolt of panic tore through me. What woman would sit on her husband’s bed with the housekeeper cradled between her thighs? I might have pushed her away, might have cried, but then her mouth was on me, and pleasure smote me. She dragged a strange, guttural moan out of me, the sound so shocking I put a hand in front of my mouth. The other one had found its way into her hair somehow, and though I did not wish to hurt her I could not help but squeeze as she lapped at me, as she licked and sucked and kissed. She was flaying me. It seemed to me that there was a thread coiled in my belly, and she was winding it up, pulling it taut with her tongue. It was a miracle I did not unravel into her mouth and hands. Whatever Maxim had done to me was nothing compared to what I felt now.

When that tread of want snapped, I bit the fleshy mound of my thumb so I would not scream. She kept her tongue against me as I rode it out. When I came to myself, I realised I had yanked some of her hair out of its pins. I took my hand away from my mouth. I had left a seam in my own flesh from where I had bitten down.

Mrs Danvers took hold of my wrist and pulled my hand out of her hair. My fingers tangled into it. I was weak with pleasure. Her lips were swollen and wet. She took the hem of my skirt and wiped her mouth on it.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched your hair,” I murmured.

“God, what a schoolgirl you are, always flushing and apologising.”

That hurt. “I’m sorry. It’s just that… I was overcome.”

“Of course you were. You’ve never felt anything like it before, have you? He has never made you come,” she said, and then she laughed.

I slapped her. It happened so quickly, I don’t think I knew I was going to do it until it had already happened. For a moment neither of us spoke. We did not even move. We just sat there, she with her cheek reddening, me with my hand tingling.

“Mrs Danvers, I am so sorry…” I began, but she would not let me finish. She stood, quick as a cat, and then she was on me.

“How dare you,” she hissed, those long fingers of hers closing around my wrist like a vice, “how dare you, you foolish little girl?” I tried to push her away, but she was stronger. I fear there was a tussle between us then, a weird sort of scuffle. She was on top of me, pinning me to the bed, and I could smell my sweet shame on her breath. Her leg was between mine. It was thin and very long. I felt the bone shift, and could not help that my hips surged up to meet it, God, I could not help wishing to rock against her, that longing so recently sated already flaring up again.

“Don’t, don’t, please,” I whined, but she cared nothing for my protestations, perhaps did not even hear them.

“You’re a silly little girl, a mere child. You don’t know what you want because you’ve never dared to ask. You’re nothing like my lady, you’re nothing like Rebecca! She seized life by the throat and would not let go, she squeezed every drop of pleasure from it and still demanded more because that was her right, her due. How dare he replace her with you? You scuttle where she once strode, clutch at her things with your grubby little hands, covet what she had with those sly little eyes of yours, and you think there shall be no retribution because you think she is dead and gone…”

“Mrs Danvers, you’ve got to stop, you shouldn’t speak of these things!” I tried to put my hand over her mouth but she nearly bit me, her jaws snapping together with the sound of a jewellery box closing.

“Not speak of these things? That would suit you, wouldn’t it? To bury my lady with silence like he is doing, pretending the past can be blotted out, that he cannot feel her in every room. Do you think I do not see? Do you think I do not feel? Do you think because I am poor and plain and merely a housekeeper that I’ve no thoughts, no desires?” It was horrible, the way she spoke, how the words came out rough and choked. I had to stop her from laying herself bare like this, but I did not know how. And all the while my legs were still wound around her, and the weight of her bearing down on me was sweet, scandalous sin. In the end I did the only thing I could think of: I grabbed a fistful of hair, yanked her head close to me, and kissed that raving mouth of hers.

We had a completely different sort of fight then. We were joined at the hip, cleaving together, and she rode me and I rode her, the two of us panting and flushing. Her mouth stoppered mine, and I could scarcely breathe. It felt as if she wished to suck the life out of me, every little wisp of it, from my flesh and muscle, from the meat of my spine. I fought back. I licked her gums, tasting that queer taste of my unravelling, sharp like vinegar. I clawed at her back, my fingers slipping on the smooth fabric of her dress. She was so slick and fast, it was neigh impossible to hold her down, to pleat her against me and be certain in the knowledge she would not leave me.

Her hand found its way between our bodies. She pushed a finger into me, and that was wrong, but it was also bliss. She thrust it into me.

“Goddamn you,” I panted. She added another finger. This was what Maxim did to me, invading me, but with him my body rebelled and wished to expel him, whereas it welcomed Mrs Danvers.

She had done this before, of that there could be no doubt, but had she done it with the only one who mattered? Had she pleasured Rebecca like she pleasured me? “Did you and Rebecca…” I began.

She curved her fingers inside me, dragged them out, and it was too much. “Don’t speak her name,” she growled. “Don’t talk about her.” She pushed her fingers back in, and I came apart.

“Danny,” I moaned. I could not help it. “Danny, goddamn, Danny…”

I had hoped she’d go easy on me now that my muscles rippled and clenched around her digits, but it seemed to excite her, for she set a quicker, harder pace, almost brutal, dancing on the edge where pain becomes pleasure and pleasure becomes pain. She added the weight of her hips behind her hand, thrusting more fiercely. I clutched her shoulder. When I came a second time, I bit at her face, her cheek, her chin, her jaw, and she had to grab me by the throat and push my face down against the covers. My hairpins dug into my scalp. I smelled Maxim then, that rugged, masculine scent of cigarettes and dogs and leather. If I had not been so afraid, so desperately passive, would I have gone to him on one of the many nights we had spent here at Manderley? Would I have slipped between these covers and put my hand on his manhood to feel it stir? Would I have straddled him, plunging him inside me? Would I have wished for him to flip me on my belly and take me from behind, my face buried in his sheets as it was now?

Why did I have to think about that now? And why did it make my belly clench, why did it make me shiver and sweat all over, the ripples of orgasm tugging at my consciousness? When I had ridden out my third climax, Mrs Danvers stopped squirming against me. “I knew you’d flush from nipple to crown when you come,” she laughed. She pulled her fingers from me and pushed them against my lips, her nails clicking against my teeth. “Don’t you dare bite me,” she said. I had nicked her jaw, I saw; a little trickle of blood had come down her throat.

I took her fingers in my mouth and sucked the silty wetness from it. When I was done, she took a handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed it between my legs. I flinched; I was very sensitive. She took the sodden handkerchief and wiped it on my throat, smearing my desire into the little bluish hollow at the base of it. “My mistress used to do this before every party. The men would smell it on her, and trail after her like dogs. I’ll wash my hands now. Go sit at your vanity so I can pin up your hair again and make up your face.”

She went into the bathroom. I could hear her fiddle with the taps and let the water splash into the basin. I came to my feet. My legs trembled. I had to hold on to the bed to keep from falling, and lean on the furniture as I made my way back to the dressing room.

The face that looked back at me from the mirror was not my own. It was flushed, with sparkling eyes. Mrs Danvers had bruised my throat. My hair had come down in damp little locks that curled against my cheeks. I began to take out the pins. My fingers felt queer and wouldn’t do what I wished them to do so that I dropped pin after pin.

Mrs Danvers came to me after a little while. She had wiped away the blood at her jawline and pinned her hair back up. She had brought a wet flannel for me. “Press this against your throat,” she said, and her voice was without animation again, the voice of someone not quite alive. She took my hairbrush and without a word began to brush my hair. Her hands were cold from the water. She helped me fasten my hair to my scalp and put on the wig, then painted my mouth for me and powdered away the bruises at my throat. She was very cool, very efficient, not at all like the impassioned woman of half an hour ago.

“All done, Madam,” she said.

I could not look her in the eye. “Thank you, Mrs Danvers. I suppose I should go downstairs. They’re probably waiting for me.”

At the door she stopped me. “Madam, you shouldn’t,” she said, and there was an urgency to her words, a simple sort of honesty. Then, the mask slipped back into place. “You’ve forgotten your hat.”

I stared at the beribboned thing. “You’re right, so I have.” I took it out of its box.

“I’d keep it in your hand if I were you,” she said. “It would crush the curls.”

“Indeed.”

I stepped out into the hallway. I was no longer excited. I just felt tired, drained. But Maxim will see you and adore you, and then all shall be well. You can forget about Mrs Danvers and all she did to you, all you wanted her to do to you. You need not think about Rebecca, and whether Mrs Danvers pleasured her. You can push it all away, down where all the hurtful things go. It can be your secret indulgence.

Afterwards, when Maxim had roared at me and sent me back up in front of everyone as if I was a naughty child, after I had locked myself into my room, my eyes red and raw from weeping but my mind a little clearer, I felt a new thought intrude on my grief. It was an insidious little thought, snagging into my mind like a thorn, humiliating me further, and it would not be pushed down, it would not be indulged in secretly: had Mrs Danvers only lain with me because I had been dressed like Rebecca?

#rebecca #danvich #rebecca fanfic #mrs danvers #fanfic tag #smutty smut smut

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theatrelove3000 · 5 years ago

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Nightmares

I don’t know how many people are actually going to read this, but if you are, Hi! I am a writer that doesn’t post my work publicly. I recently talked to another writer, @thelokiimaginechronicles who was kind enough to take time out of her day to read some of my work and encourage me to post it. I have decided to do so. This is my first time posting my Loki/OC anywhere so I hope whoever is reading it likes it!

This is an established relationship so there isn’t a slow burn or anything like that.

Summary: Noelle has a nightmare and her lover, Loki comforts her. (I got the idea of this fic from a video on youtube of Tom Hiddleston reading poetry. This is the link to that video if you’re interested. Video of Tom reading

Nightmares

3rd Person:

It is dark. Very dark. Noelle’s eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, enough to make out shapes in the gloom. Something moves out of the corner of her eye and she automatically moves to grab the dagger at her hip only to realize that it’s gone. She tries not to panic as she scans the area surrounding her.

“Hello?” She calls into the nothingness, “Hello?”

From the distance, a figure moves forth, coming towards her.

“Who’s there? Where am I?”

She receives no response but the being is getting closer.

Her eyes move about her surroundings. Where is her dagger?

She had only been looking down for a moment when she looked back up to see the advancing figure standing right in front of her. She couldn’t make out a face, for the being was shrouded in a dark cloak that covered it from head to foot. She didn’t know that she was screaming until she bolted upright in bed.

Noelle POV:

“Shit,” I whisper to myself. I pull my knees up to my chest and count my breaths, trying to pull myself back together.

“Goddamn it.” I throw the silky purple sheets of my bed back and pull on a thin cardigan to protect me from the cool night air. Before I know what I’m doing, I am walking through the castle in my nightgown and sweater, barefoot. I don’t really think about where I am going until I get there.

I open the door to the library and go right to Loki’s desk. I knew he was there, he usually is, and sure enough, he turns in his chair, sensing my arrival. He is bent over his desk, reading some large volume he must have pulled off the bookshelves hours ago, as he is halfway through it.

He looks over his shoulder at me with a smirk teasing his lips. I must have looked freaked out because his slight smile turned to a confused look then a frown as he stood and met me halfway to him.

The sight of him made me start picking up my pace until I was running straight into his waiting arms.

“Hush, Noelle, hush. What is the matter? Are you alright?” I didn’t realize I was crying until he pulled away to hold my face, running his thumbs along my cheeks, catching the falling tears.

I just nod then, realizing that I’m clearly not, shake my head and bury my face in his chest. He nods and wraps his arms tightly, almost protectively, around me again.

He picks me up gently and I instinctively wrap my arms around his neck hiding my face in his shoulder. He walks us both over to the sofa in the middle of the Royal Library and sits down, keeping me on his lap.

We hold onto each other tightly as he let’s me cry on his shoulder, stroking my hair and whispering reassurances to me. “It will be alright, love. I’m right here. You are alright.”

I start babbling nonsense about when I remembered from the dream. Dark cloaks and my missing dagger. How dark it was. He sits there patiently, telling me I am safe and he won’t let anything happen to me.

I don’t know how long we sat like this. All I know is I am exhausted. Loki seems to know this and moves me off his lap, laying me down across the sofa with my head in his lap.

“Do you wish to tell me about it?” He asked gently, playing with my hair. I shake my head. I do not want to relive that nightmare.

He nods and continues to play with my hair. He hums quietly, soothing me even more.

“I found a book I think you will enjoy. I can read to you if you would like,” his velvet voice drawls quietly to me. I nod and start to sit up, expecting him to stand up to retrieve the book but he puts a hand on my shoulder, keeping me in my place. I cock an eyebrow at him and he waves his hands theatrically, making the book appear out of thin air.

“Showoff.” I mutter and he chuckles, opening the book, beginning to read quietly.

“The time will come

when, with elation

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror

and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.”

He pauses for a moment, looking to see if I was awake before continuing,

“Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.”

He finishes the poem and flips a few pages, searching for another one he likes. I watch him. His beautiful face is shaded by candlelight. His cheekbones high and sharp, jawline that could cut someone. Piercing emerald green eyes that melt my soul. He was too beautiful for any Midgardian to see completely. I was lucky enough to be half Asgardian and am able to enjoy his beauty completely.

He finds the next poem and begins again,

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove.

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wand'ring bark,

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me prov’d,

I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.”

By the end, I am reciting it with him without even looking at the words. He looks down at me again with a smile and a questioning eyebrow.

“I recognize it. It’s my favorite Sonnet by William Shakespeare. He wrote hundreds of them.” I explain how my father had given me a book of sonnets for Christmas when I was 10, just before he returned to Asgard.

“Interesting,” he says softly,“This is a book of Midgardian poetry so it does not surprise that you know the author. I suppose I wasn’t expecting you to know the Sonnet.”

I smile lightly, feeling more tired listening to him speak, hearing the pages of the book being turned, the heat from the fire a few feet away. I know I won’t last much longer.

Loki POV:

She was falling asleep. I resolve to read her a few more to sooth her. She was very panicked when she got here, but she seems to have calmed down.

I flip through the book again, glancing down at her every now and then to see if she is still awake. She is, just staring into the fire.

Finding another poem that I find entertaining I begin to read aloud,

“may i feel said he

(i’ll squeal said she

just once said he)

it’s fun said she

(may i touch said he

how much said she

a lot said he)

why not said she

(let’s go said he

not too far said she

what’s too far said he

where you are said she)

may i stay said he

which way said she

like this said he

if you kiss said she

may i move said he

is it love said she)

if you’re willing said he

(but you’re killing said she

but it’s life said he

but your wife said she

now said he)

ow said she

(tiptop said he

don’t stop said she

oh no said he)

go slow said she

(cccome?said he

ummm said she)

you’re divine!said he

(you are Mine said she)” I look down again as I finish the piece and see she is still gazing into the fire, though her cheeks have flushed a bit from the words of the poem. That is the result I had hoped for from reading it.

I begin looking through the book again, looking for one more. One more and she will be asleep, I tell myself. It is not that I do not like reading out loud, especially to Noelle, I love it, in fact; I am just tired as well and wish to go to bed myself.

“She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!” I glance down at the beautiful woman in my lap and see she is asleep. I grin a bit at the sight. She looks so peaceful and happy when she sleeps.

It is only then that I think my decision through: allowing her to fall asleep on a sofa in the library, knowing that I either have to carry her to her room or teleport which would be incredibly dangerous. Letting her sleep here in the library is not an option either; what if someone comes in to find her alone here or has another nightmare? No. We cannot have that.

I decide that I could take her to my room, have her sleep there with me where I can be close if she needs me.

I let her sleep for a bit longer to ensure that she is truly asleep before slipping my arm around her back, the other under her knees. I gently move her until she is sitting in my lap the way she was before I began to read to her.

From there I stand up, realizing how tired I was as well. I could feel the weight of the day in my shoulders and legs and resolve to walk to my room rather than teleport. I do not want to injure myself, let alone Noelle.

I begin walking through the empty halls of the castle, Noelle fast asleep in my arms, her own wrapped around my neck instinctively.

My chambers are not far from the library so it was not a long walk. I unlock and open the door with a flicker of my fingers and light some candles with another movement. Magic is very helpful at times like this. I kick the door shut with my heel and make my way over to my large canopy bed. I lay my love down and begin to undress myself, leaving my pants on because I am a gentleman who does not take advantage of women in moments of weakness.

I crawl into bed after her and cover us both with the deep green sheets. I try not to disturb her but when she begins tossing and turning, I pull her to my chest. I roll so that I’m on my back with her tucked under my right arm, her head resting on the place my arm and shoulder connect to the rest of my body. She calms instantly and immediately, her hands move so one covers mine on her waist, almost like she is keeping my there, the other resting on my chest above my heartbeat.

I listen to her breathing, slow and steady and peaceful. It had been a long time since I slept in the same bed as another person and I would being lying if I said that I did not miss it. The soothing sound of her breathing that told me that she was alright, the heat radiating from our bodies warming the bed faster than one could do on their own.

I fall asleep soon after she does, the sound and feel of her comforting all the anxiety that usually keeps me up at night.

#loki x oc #nightmare #comforting #reading

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rplinkhoward · 5 years ago

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Laven Secret Santa

Sorry this is so late. Originally was gonna post this yesterday but I got sidetracked ^^”

(So, this is dedicated to @bakausagirabi25. I was your secret Santa, and this was actually an idea that's been rolling around in my head for a while while I was writing my Parent Cross and Child Allen snippets. This is the perfect excuse to explore the idea of Allen actually having feelings for Lavi rather than Link in my original story. I hope it's not too uncomfortable, I know not a lot of people would probably like this kinda thing but…well, I hope you like it! For a frame of reference, this is set in a ModernAU and based on the alternate universe I created for my DGM fic series. Lavi Age: 16. Allen: 14.)

Allen was just about to sit and watch T.V. after getting home from school when he heard the door slam open and a very upset, red-head storm through the entrance and run up the stairs. Allen, who was holding a can of pop in one hand and a massive bag of chips in the other, stared up at the stairs where Lavi ran up to. Then he looked over at Cross sitting in his recliner, who seemed just as confused and concerned.

"I thought you were the one who usually had the teen angst. Did you guys decide to switch it up today and not tell me?" Cross asked while inwardly debating if this situation called for him to get up and 'be a dad' or if it was just a random case of 'fuck the whole world and everyone in it' teen rage that would dissipate on its own.

Allen gave him an annoyed look, mumbling under his breath that he wasn't that angsty and that Cross was a senile old man before he set his snacks down on the coffee table. Then he began to walk upstairs to investigate what was wrong with his friend. Well, ok, he wasn't necessarily a friend…I mean he was…but closer? A lot of people would probably use the term brother to describe their relationship, but Allen never thought it fit properly.

When Bookman was away on business, Lavi would stay with Cross and Allen. He even had his own room because of this. It's been this way ever since they were little, well, really ever since the first day they met. It was after Mana's accident, and he had just gotten used to living in the same space as Cross when he was forced to meet Lavi. Yes. He was forced. By Cross. Why? Because Cross thought that Allen needed to talk to kids his own age (which if he was being honest, he did because he seldom interacted with kids his own age before living with Cross) and Lavi wasn't necessarily…good at making friends. He had Kanda and Lenalee, but there were times Lavi got to be a little…overwhelming. Lavi was quite the hyperactive little kid when they first met (and he still was at times), and though he scared Allen half to death when they first met, the two connected almost instantly.

Allen would never forget how Lavi took everything in stride. His weird eye scar. His arm. The lack of responses Allen gave Lavi because he didn't know what to think about this new world he was thrust into without warning. It didn't faze him at all. Lavi just took one look at Allen and decided that they were going to be 'bestest best best friends,' and that was that. Lavi infused light into Allen's world, a light that he was afraid he would never see again after Mana's death.

The two were inseparable from then on. Attached to the hip. Every time they were around each other, they were touching each other in some way. A hand thrown over the shoulder, leaning up against each other, holding hands, one of their heads laying in the other's lap. Where one went, the other followed. If one was in the bathroom, one was sitting outside, blabbering about something. If one was crying, the other quickly followed suit. Many times they slept together even though they both had separate rooms. If Lavi decided to do some stupid stunt, Allen was always right there, his right-hand man. If one was sick, the other was curled up alongside, also ill.

They were a package deal, alright. They were dubbed 'Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum,' 'Double Trouble,' 'Thing 1 and Thing 2', among many others, most, of course, came from Cross. There were many times Cross swore they were twins separated at birth, which could be plausible considering Allen used to have reddish-brown hair before the accident.

Despite all of that, Allen never considered the two of them to be 'best friends' or 'brothers.' What they had was something different. It was a lot deeper, but Allen could never find a word fit to describe it. As Allen stood in front of Lavi's door, hearing the muffled screaming coming from behind the door as the other screamed into a pillow, he felt his chest ache and his eyes sting.

"Lavi, are you ok?" Allen asked, trying to reel in his own emotions. The last thing they needed was for both of them to be an angsty mess.

"Go away!" Was the answer he got. Ow. That sure stung. Especially since that was the first time Lavi told him to go away when he was upset. They'd never done that to each other before, it didn't matter what the other was going through. There were times where Cross or Anita had to separate them because they fed off of each other's emotions, but that happened very seldom. They were only taken aside when the other was in hysterics (mostly Allen) because it was easier to handle one kid in hysterics instead of two.

Well, Allen wasn't going to go away. No matter how much Lavi wanted him to or even after he got an answer. His heart wouldn't let him. So, Allen turned the doorknob and walked right in, against Lavi's wishes.

"Allen! Leave!" Lavi barked out. He was lying down on his bed, his back facing towards Allen. Allen ignored him and instead strode over to lay down beside Lavi, his arm circling around the older's body, his chin resting on his messy, red hair. Allen knew he already lost the fight as he felt his own tears silently roll down his cheeks as he laid with the other who was hugging a pillow, shaking. Allen didn't know if it was from sadness or rage, but he wasn't going anywhere. He was going to ride alongside Lavi on whatever rocky, stormy seas he was traveling on until the waters calmed again.

A small whine left Lavi's lips as he felt the other wrap himself around him, and he felt all of his composure break. The wall he attempted to build up to keep Allen away from him broke, though he knew it was futile to build it to begin with. He knew if the roles were reversed that he would do the same thing. So, the two laid there together for some time, having their little shared cry fest. One knowing why they were crying, while the other didn't.

As Lavi began to calm down, the other following suit, he choked out, "She rejected me…"

She? Rejected? Whoa, hold the phone! When did Lavi have a crush on someone, and why wasn't Allen told!? Well, shit, I didn't know it could do that, Allen thought to himself in surprise, shock, and a little bit of hurt. I mean, they told each other everything, and yet Lavi left out this detail!? Ow!?

"You didn't tell me you liked someone!" Allen huffed, his cheeks puffing up in anger as he smacked the top of Lavi's head, "When were you planning on telling me that!?"

"Ow!" Lavi yelped before he turned over to glare at Allen, his own cheeks puffing up in anger though he didn't look threatening at all. It was hard to look threatening when your eyes were puffy and red.

"I wasn't going to because you're too young to know what love is," was Lavi's statement.

"Too young!? What kinda crap is that!? I'm only two years younger than you, ya jerk!" Allen raged, but the anger was short-lived. There would be time for that later. Right now, he wanted to know who rejected him and why. Allen wanted to know whose butt he needed to be kicking, no matter what kind of rejection Lavi experienced. He didn't know why, but he was actually quite pissed off at the idea of Lavi loving someone, and he didn't know why.

"Well!?" Allen asked.

"Well, what?"

"You can't just say she rejected me and not tell me who it was or how they rejected you! Obviously, it made you upset! So!? Out with it! Who was it!?"

"It was the curly blonde girl in my class. Her name is Brittany-"

"Oh my god, Lavi, you didn't! You fell for her!? Brittany from the cheerleading squad!?"

"Yeah? So?"

"So!? Dude, she's a total bitch! I could've told you that! Anyone on the team could've told you that! She goes through guys like I go through mitarashi dango! She's totally toxic! How could you fall for her!?"

Lavi sighed and turned his back on Allen, "I knew you wouldn't understand."

"Oh, come on, Lavi, don't be like that! Look, I do get it, but you also should be logical about it! She treats her boyfriends like crap. Why put yourself in a position like that!?"

"Because it's love. Love makes you stupid and blind to the other person's flaws," Lavi huffed before burying his face in his pillow.

"Alright. Fair. So, how did she reject you?" Allen asked, gearing up for a fight. He already knew the rejection was probably not good, judging from what he knew of this girl. Allen was also super annoyed that Lavi would choose someone like her of all people. I mean, if he was gonna go for a girl over him, at least pick someone worthy! He didn't just think that…

"How do you think?"

"I can think of many different possibilities, but I'd rather hear it from you."

"I asked her out by reciting one of William Shakespeare's poems…Sonnet 18," Lavi lamented.

Allen resisted the urge to groan. Oh, dear gods above, out of all people, Lavi decided to quote a love poem, William Shakespeare no less, to her!? Granted, Allen couldn't understand anything Shakespeare himself, but even so, he would've appreciated it! Especially if it came from Lavi of all people. Lavi was terrific when it came to quoting or reading books. He transformed reality around him every time he read aloud, even if it was something totally dull like some textbook. Lavi made it fun! Besides, Lavi excelled in the drama club, and Allen knew that Lavi wouldn't have just read the poem, he would've acted it! Allen could feel himself seething with rage and jealousy at the fact that this she witch had to be the object of Lavi's affection. Allen would've melted into goo if Lavi performed a poem just for him! The only thing that girl ever appreciated was something glittery and diamond-encrusted!

"It was after practice…and I recited it in front of her friends like a total, lovesick, dumb ass," Lavi laughed scornfully* before continuing, "And when I was done…she laughed at me. It wasn't that soft, airy, kinda laugh either, like an awkward, nervous laughter. She was cackling at me and asked me why I would think she would go out with someone like me. Some guy with an eye patch that was a total factoid, nerd that always read books and hung out with losers…." Lavi recounted forlornly.

"Lavi…" Allen breathed his hand ghosting over the redhead's shoulder in sympathy. He could picture the scene clearly. He could practically feel the way Lavi's heart must've been beating as he recited that poem allowed towards his crush. How it pounded against his ribcage like a wild beast thrashing against a cage wanting freedom. He could feel his palms sweating and the tension in his body, hear the smallest of quivers in his voice. Then he could hear her hideous cackling, the mirth in those disgusting, puke green eyes (or at least that's the color it looked like to Allen). He could hear her nasally voice spitting out those words at Lavi and feel the ache in his chest before his heart dropped down to the ground. Broken. Splintering into pieces, like a plate being thrown to the ground.

"Then her friends laughed at me to…I didn't notice until after she rejected me that one of them was filming the whole thing..."

"I'm sorry…" Allen breathed, his eyes filling with tears once again. His heart hurt…a lot, but he couldn't imagine the magnitude that Lavi must be feeling.

"She told me that no one would ever love an ugly freak like me and that I should just hole myself up somewhere and die," Lavi whispered, "Then I walked away."

Allen gasped, "That fucking bitch…."

"She's right, though…I mean, there hasn't been a girl yet begging me to go to prom with them. I'm not necessarily Mr. popular…"

"That's not true! I'm sure you got plenty of girls who would want to go to prom with you! They're just too nervous to ask you!" Allen responded, holding back on saying that he would personally love to go to prom with Lavi.

"We're best friends, and we live together. You're supposed to say that," Lavi said with an eye roll.

"No, it doesn't! As your best friend, it's my job to tell you the truth, and I am doing so! Brittany doesn't know what she's missing! None of the girls at school know what they're missing! I can say that because I actually know you and I can vouch for that! You're really smart and funny! You always come up with the best ideas-!"

"That's not what Cross thinks. It's a miracle we didn't kill ourselves years ago, …especially when we decided to ride down the stairs in a box. Or that time in the summer where we tried to jump into that cheap pool we had from the roof," Lavi interjected.

"So!? Cross is an adult! It's his job to hate fun!" Allen huffed.

"There is a difference between fun and doing something that could possibly severely injure or kill you."

"Pfft whatever, you're changing the subject!" Allen interrupted before continuing, "Anyways, as I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me…you're really smart, funny, you come up with great ideas, you are an amazing performer, you have a cool eye patch, you're dreams of traveling the world are super interesting, your body is amazing-"

"I look like a skinny twig-"

"YOU MEAN YOU HAVE AN AMAZING BODY!" Allen yelled over Lavi's interruption, "You have the clearest, most beautiful green eye I have ever seen! You're compassionate, you are a great friend and like the best cuddler on the planet. If they're all too blind to see it, and if you're too blind to see it, then I guess I'll just date you myself!"

"Huh?" Lavi asked.

"I swear to God Lavi if you ignored me all that time-"

"I was listening, I just think I misheard you. What was the last thing you said?"

Allen blinked in confusion before stating, "You're really smart?"

"No! The last thing, not the first thing!"

"You're the best cuddler?"

"No! The very last thing you said!"

"If they're too blind to see it, then I guess I'll just-" Allen repeated before his face went a dark shade of red in realization. Oh my god, he literally just said that.

"Well, it's been a great talk Lavi, but I just realized I have a place to go to! Y-Yeah, a place far away…like under a rock-I mean a house! Yeah, Lenalee's house! I promised that I would do something with her at her house because she lives in a house and yeah! Bye! Feel better soon, " Allen stammered as he tried to make a break for it. Before Allen could fully get off of Lavi's bed, he felt the other grab his leg to keep him where he was.

"Wow! Lenalee lives in a house!? Who would've thought!" Lavi stated sarcastically before he turned serious again, "So, what is this about dating me yourself?"

"It's nothing! It just slipped out. Ya know how it is. Just being a supportive bro. Cuz that's what bros do. Yep. It's only two dudes being bros. Bros being dudes. Nothing to read into too deeply, ya know, "Allen continued to stammer.

"Yeah, because it's totally a dude thing to talk about how beautiful the other dude's eyes are, "Lavi deadpanned.

"Hey, two bros can totally compliment each other's eyes. It's not just a chick thing. Don't be like that," Allen stated.

"Fair. But telling the other bro that they'd date them?"

"It's a compliment!"

"See, I thought that, but it's obvious from how red your face got that it's not just a compliment."

"…."

"I have a skin condition…" Allen offered weakly.

Lavi gave Allen a knowing look. Allen sighed and flopped back down on Lavi's bed, his back now facing him, "Let it go, Lavi."

"Do I look like Elsa to you?"

"Hey, don't be bringing my girl Elsa into this! She is a queen!" Allen snapped.

Lavi rolled his eyes and poked Allen's side, making the other jerk in surprise.

"So…you would date me?"

"…Yeah…so?"

"In a platonic way or like in a…ya know…in the other way?"

"What do you think!?"

The two fell in silence for a long moment.

"Are you disgusted by me?" Allen asked.

"No. Why?"

"Well, I mean, we live together. We're like brothers."

"I think of it more as best friends helping each other out. I mean, where else would I go when Gramps was on one of his trips?"

"Still…isn't it wrong?"

"Life is too complicated to be evenly split down in the middle into right and wrong. Especially when feelings are involved. So, I guess it depends on how you feel. When did you begin to feel differently about me?" Lavi asked, turning around, so his back was facing Allen's.

"I don't know…I don't think my feelings ever changed. It always felt different to me. Ever since we first met," Allen explained, "I didn't really think anything of it because it seemed like you were mostly into girls anyways."

"Yeah…well, I only chased after girls because it seemed like you were set on being with Link for your entire life. I didn't think I had a chance, or that you'd ever look at me that way. I mean, I was always jealous of Link. Ever since you two became friends. Even after all these years. There was no way I could compete with someone like Link," Lavi admitted.

"Yeah, he does make pretty good sweets," Allen admitted, as he turned around to face Lavi's back, "But my stomach isn't the only way to my heart. If someone asked me…I'd have to say that you were my first love. Even if I didn't have any idea what that word meant at the time. I still don't think I even know what it means."

"So…what do we do now?" Allen asked after a few minutes of silence went by.

"Well, what do you want to do?"

"…I want to see where this leads…" Allen responded hesitantly. He was afraid of what Lavi would say.

Lavi hummed softly and turned around, so he was face to face with Allen once again. The two of them stared at each other, Allen looking shy, while Lavi looked back in certainty. Lavi sure looked a lot braver than Allen, but that was always Lavi. It wasn't often that the redhead looked uncertain. When he set his mind out to do something, he always seemed so confident that it was going to work out in the end, even if it was clearly a stupid idea. Allen could remember countless times where they were about to do some silly stunt, and he would look over at Lavi warily to see the other's look of determination. Seeing his face like that always calmed Allen in the end because no matter what happened, he knew that they would be ok. If they ended up getting hurt from their latest stunt, he knew they would be ok because he had Lavi right beside him.

So, though Allen was shy and uncertain of how to go about this new relationship dynamic they created, he knew it was going to be ok. No matter what happened, even if they eventually broke up or whatever, it was going to be ok. They were going to be ok, and nothing was ever going to change about them because of this.

Lavi moved closer, close enough that their noses were touching, his eye flitting up to meet Allen's to check his reaction, to make sure Allen wasn't getting too uncomfortable. Allen wasn't uncomfortable per se, but his heart was pounding like crazy to have Lavi this close to his face. Under any other circumstances, he wouldn't have batted an eye, but with this new context, having Lavi this close had a whole different meaning.

Then Lavi's lips connected with Allen's shaking ones and-oh! It's like in that moment everything connected so perfectly together, like all the confusion Allen felt over what their relationship exactly was, was finally solved. All that weird tension and confusion he felt fluctuating over the years finally dissipated now that he had an answer.

As Lavi eventually pulled away, much to Allen's reluctance, he asked, "Did that feel ok?"

Allen's response was to move towards Lavi to do it again. He wanted that bliss again. That clarity. He wanted to feel the way their bodies connected together so perfectly. Lavi didn't mind; in fact, he was over the moon that Allen didn't pull away in disgust. He was glad that it was reciprocated, that it didn't make things awkward between them.

"Can you recite that poem for me?" Allen asked after a few minutes of silence as they enjoyed each other's embrace, occasionally kissing each other or another part of the other's body. Just merely enjoying this newfound relationship they created.

"Hmmm?" Lavi hummed lazily. The lack of oxygen to his brain making him dazed, and his head buzz happily.

"The poem you recited to Brittany. I want you to recite it to me. Please?" Allen asked, his head tilting to the side. He wanted to see how animated Lavi would get reciting it again. He wanted to see the love in his eyes as those words floated out of his lips. Allen wanted to see that love directed at him. To appreciate that love. The love that was meant for another but was rejected. Such lovely feelings deserved to be recognized.

"Sonnet 18?" Lavi asked. Allen could see the other search the air, mentally trying to find the compartment the poem was stashed in in his brain. Allen always loved to think of Lavi's head as a computer of sorts with how much information he managed to squirrel away in it. Once Lavi located what he was looking for, that beautiful green eyes paused like a computer arrow finding the article, word, or picture it wanted to click on, then the little window popped open with the information Lavi sought for.

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee." Lavi recited, his voice taking on an old accent that Allen heard used when he talked with Bookman and on occasion when Lavi was expressing a large amount of emotions. Neither of them would tell Allen where that accent came from, keeping it a secret that only Bookman and Lavi knew. Even so, Allen still loved it, how soft it sounded, like the wind gently rustling the leaves of trees. He loved the way Lavi would roll his r's a little bit. To Allen, it sounded almost of Scottish descent, but he couldn't be sure.

Allen admired the way Lavi's eye glittered as he recited the poem, the way the glitters would fade momentarily as his eye darkened in love, in lust, passion. Sort of like a flickering flame. This is one of the biggest reasons Allen loved to hear Lavi when he read aloud or performed a piece; he loved the light that would flicker in Lavi's eyes, the emotions sparking and coming to life.

"How was that?" Lavi asked.

"That was adorable. I can't believe she rejected you with that. She wouldn't know what love was even if it hit her in the face," Allen said happily, his cheeks alight in flattery.

"So, you understood the full extent of what that poem means?" Lavi asked, deciding to quiz Allen.

Allen's happy face dropped to one of embarrassment. No, he didn't understand a single word that Lavi said. He really sucked when it came to reading and comprehending what he was reading in general. To him, Shakespeare spoke in total gibberish. It was still romantic to see Lavi spouting off said gibberish, though.

"No…" Allen admitted.

Lavi sighed, knowing that Allen probably wouldn't, "Thought so."

"So, what does it mean?"

"The speaker is basically comparing their beloved to a summer's day. Near the end of the poem, the speaker talks about what makes their beloved different from a summer's day. Summer always ends and moves on to autumn, but the speaker tells their beloved that their beauty will always last, unlike summer," Lavi explained.

"Awwwhhh…you're a total Romeo."

"Pfft, Romeo?"

"Yeah, you know, like Romeo and Juliet?"

"Well, I would hope I would be less stupid."

"What do you mean? Why is Romeo stupid?" Allen asked.

"Oh my god, did you learn nothing from your English class?"

"I learned stuff! I learned that English makes my brain turn to mush!"

"Oh my god, Allen…" Lavi sighed.

(Ahhh, I hope this was fluffy enough where not everything was too angsty! I hope you enjoyed it <3)

#lavigiftexchange2020 #laven #allen walker #lavi bookman #modernAU

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torestoreamends · 5 years ago

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Sonnet 29: A Drastoria Fic

1.5k words, G rated

On a sunny spring afternoon, Draco and Astoria discuss Scorpius’s education, and Draco recites a sonnet.

Inspired by this video of James Howard.

Read it on AO3

It’s a blazing spring day. The sun smiles down out of the cerulean sky, and the rose garden is in its brightest bloom. Draco and Astoria stroll hand in hand among the vibrant flowers, Scorpius running ahead of them, shouting about butterflies and bees and his favourite roses.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had that much energy in my life,” Astoria says, as Scorpius darts from bush to bush, barely pausing for a second.

“He certainly exhausts me. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you.”

“Oh, it’s wonderful. Just... overwhelming. I wish I could keep up.”

Draco squeezes her hand. “Me too.”

Astoria watches for a moment as Scorpius stoops down to inspect a daisy in the grass. “We still haven’t decided what we’re doing about school, have we?”

Draco glances at her, but she’s inscrutable. “No, I suppose we haven’t. I assume you have some thoughts?”

“Daphne’s sending her children to a local Muggle school. For a general education, of course. They learn all sorts. Reading and writing, music, geography, Muggle history, even Muggle science. It sounds quite fascinating.”

Draco sniffs. “I’m sure it is...”

“You don’t approve.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Astoria shoots him a little smile, and he rolls his eyes.

“It’s not that I don’t approve... I’m just not sure I like the idea of Scorpius being exposed to-“

“This is going to be a dangerous statement.”

Draco lets go of Astoria’s hand and pokes her gently in the side. “No, it’s not. Be quiet and listen to your husband for a moment.”

“I’ll shut up and let you dig yourself a hole. Go on.” She presses a finger to her lips.

“I’m not digging!”

She raises her eyebrows at him and doesn’t say anything.

He sighs. “All I’m trying to say is that... I don’t like the idea of Scorpius being exposed to a substandard education. Which by no account means that all Muggle education is substandard. On the contrary, I’m sure it’s excellent. But I do read those newspapers you leave lying around, Astoria. Those politicians meddling with Muggle education... It all seems terribly inconsistent, changeable as the wind, and the exams... Imagine taking a curious child like Scorpius and crushing all the joy out of him with all those exams. That’s what I’d be worried about. I mean look at him.”

They both fall silent and watch Scorpius. His attention is focused on one particular flower. When he realises his parents are watching him, he looks up and grins at them.

“There’s a bee!” He points at the flower and peels the petals back, twisting the stem to show them. “Look!”

“He loves the world,” Draco murmurs. “He loves learning. I don’t want him to lose that.”

Astoria twines her fingers with his and leans into him, turning to look up at his face. “That’s not the answer I expected you to give. I’m sorry.”

Draco lifts her hand up and kisses it. “I haven’t earned the benefit of the doubt, don’t worry. It’s something I’m working on.”

“No, you earn it every day. I just forget sometimes.”

Draco bows his head to hide what he’s worried might be a blush. “Anyway... Neither of us went to formal school before Hogwarts and we turned out alright. Eventually.”

“We did. But I think it would be nice for him to meet other children and make some friends. Muggle education experts say social development is very important.”

“We could take him to visit his cousins more often. I like Daphne. She has an excellent wine cellar.”

Astoria snorts and digs her elbow into his ribs. “What’s wrong with our wine cellar?”

“It’s much more fun to drink someone else’s expensive wine. Drinking one’s own can be somewhat painful. In fact, that’s something we could teach Scorpius during his home education.”

“We could... train him to be the world’s youngest Master Sommelier?”

“No. We could teach him the value of graciously accepting other people’s hospitality. Social education, just like your Muggle experts suggest.”

“Somehow, I’m not sure that’s quite what they were thinking of...” She links her arm with his and they set off walking in pursuit of Scorpius, who’s disappearing down the lawn in the distance. “What else would you teach our son, if he were to be educated at home?”

“History, obviously. Languages; we could even start him off with some basic runes. Literature — all the classics.”

“Are we including Muggle classics in this?”

“Such as?”

“Austen. Brontë.”

Draco wrinkles his nose. “Romance novels?”

Astoria pokes him in the side. “What would you have picked?”

“Shakespeare.”

“Says the man who was disparaging romances.”

“At least Shakespeare also wrote a great many tragedies, and history plays.”

“And sonnets, some of the most beautiful romantic poetry ever written.”

Up ahead, Scorpius starts running back towards them, waving his hands in excitement about something.

“Some of the sonnets may be relatable...” Draco admits.

Astoria grins and squeezes his arm. “Such as?”

“Such as... Sonnet 29.” Draco releases Astoria so he can turn to face her properly. He clears his throat. “‘When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes; I all alone beweep my outcast state; And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries; And look upon myself and curse my fate; Desiring this-’ Hang on, that’s wrong. I don’t think I can remember it...”

Astoria smiles. “You skipped a couple of lines. ‘Wishing me like to one more rich in hope; Featured like him-’”

Draco nods and starts reciting again, speaking along with Astoria. “‘Like him with friends possessed; Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope; With what I most enjoy contented least-’”

“Mummy, Daddy!” Scorpius bounces up to them, waving something in his hand. Astoria puts a finger to her lips and scoops him up into her arms.

“Sshh, Daddy’s reciting a poem for us.”

Scorpius twists round and stares at Draco, wide-eyed, as Draco continues, trying not to be tripped up by the fact that his audience has suddenly doubled in size.

“‘Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising; Haply I think on thee.’” He reaches out and taps Scorpius on the nose. Scorpius giggles and goes cross-eyed as he follows Draco’s finger. When Draco pulls hand back, he clamps his own hand over his nose, still grinning. Draco smiles as he carries on.

“‘And then my state, (Like to the lark at break of day arising from sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate; For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings; That then I scorn to change my state with kings.’”

When Draco finishes, Astoria taps her fingers on Scorpius’s back in applause, and Scorpius cheers. Draco gives them a small bow.

“Thank you, thank you. I’m stunned I remembered that.”

“It was pretty,” Scorpius says. “What‘s it mean?”

“It’s about love,” Draco replies, shooting Astoria a smile. “And hardship. And redemption, I suppose. Very relatable.”

“It was written by Shakespeare.” Astoria brushes her fingers through Scorpius’s hair. “He was a famous writer. Your daddy and I might be going to teach you about him, along with lots of other things, so you’ll know lots and lots before you go to Hogwarts.”

“Oh...” Scorpius breathes in wonder. “I want to learn about everything.”

“Exactly.” Astoria kisses him on the forehead. “Now, what did you want to show us?”

Scorpius waves his hands down the garden. “There’s an amazing flower! I don’t know what it is. You need to tell me. I’ll show you.” He wriggles his way out of Astoria’s arms and tears away across the grass.

Astoria sighs and wraps an arm round Draco. “I don’t think you could constrain that in a classroom even if you tried...”

Draco shakes his head. “No. I’d pity the poor teacher that had to try. Although I suppose that’ll be us...”

Astoria laughs. “You might come to regret trying to home school him.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think I could ever regret anything when it comes to him.”

Astoria leans her head briefly on his shoulder. “You should consider reciting sonnets more often, you know. I could get used to it. You have a nice voice for them.”

Draco gives her a squeeze. “For you, I could consider becoming a hopeless romantic.”

“Shame, I thought you already were.”

Draco laughs. “We’ll see. Now, I suppose we should hurry up and find out what our adorable bundle of exhaustion wants to show us.”

“I bet it’s not a flower. I bet it’s another toadstool.”

“Basic Herbology. We should add that to the list of things to teach him.”

“Definitely... He has the whole world to explore.”

“But the best people to show it to him, even if I do say so myself.”

“Mmm.” Astoria pauses in her stride so she can lean up and kiss him. “Even if you do say so yourself.”

They wrap their arms around each other and fall into an awkward, lopsided stride as they wander happily through the sun drenched rose garden, following the sound of Scorpius’s distant laughter.

#Draco Malfoy #Astoria Malfoy #Scorpius Malfoy #Drastoria #Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Fic #Cursed Child Fic #HPCC Fic #Cursed Child #Harry Potter and the Cursed Child #Malfoy family feels #My writing #Keep The Secrets #James had to pick the most Draco sonnet didn't he?#Of course he did #Actual Draco Malfoy #(Also writing baby Scorpius is my favourite)#(What a bundle of joy he is)

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maggotmouth · 5 years ago

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hello, i’m nora ( she / her, 24, gmt ) and i almost exclusively join dark academia rps. please find below everything i have thus far on otto ballantyne, a theatre and classics student who was arranged to be married to one of the students who disappeared. i’ve honestly been itching to write otto again for months, so thanks to this lil group for giving me the opportunity. can’t wait to get my teeth stuck into him again. please bombard me with discord messages for plots. here is his pinterest.

act one: application.

THOMAS DOHERTY , CIS-MALE , HE/HIM → according to the school records , OTTO HORATIO BALLANTYNE has been attending sacred heart for the past four years . i last saw them hanging around the cliffs ; i think they were reciting shakespearean soliloquies to the wind and a weathered old skull. at twenty - three years old , otto has been studying theatre & classics and get this , i heard that he was arranged to be married to alice rosseau before her untimely disappearance , and was desperate to call off the affair — figure it’s true ? everyone around here always associates them with an aged bottle of malbec glugged carelessly at the after - show , the kind of confidence that only a private education gives , white lines of powder snorted off a marble sink with lovers you’ll later deny . in the time since these strange happenings , they have have not encountered any unexplained occurrences . ( written by nora , 24 , she/her , gmt )

act two: the muse !

ok so lemme start off by saying otto is heavily inspired by if we were villains by m l rio and the secret history by donna tartt. very serious actor. into the classical plays, but would definitely fit in a production of posh by laura wade. originally i wrote him for a murder mystery dark academia group but when the group ended i missed him so much i decided to bring him here.

born in south london, but raised in cheltenham. went to eton or harrow or one of those posh english boarding schools for boys. we love the homoeroticism of learning latin with your homies and chanting sonnets in caves by candlelight.

youngest son in his family. was fiercely competitive with his brother nathaniel growing up. having an older brother who was incredibly intelligent and successful made otto learn to treat his life like it was a fight. constantly trying to be better and ‘prove himself’.

otto’s a brat. filthy rich public school boy vibes, very riot club. champagne all over the ceiling and driving well over the limit. custom-made cuff links he loses in taverns when he rolls up his sleeves to lean on the bar. needing to know so much about a character you’re playing that it consumes you ; you can no longer tell which parts of you are otto and which parts are macbeth.

characters who have inspired him: alistair ryle in the riot club, francis abernathy in the secret history, anthony marston in and then there were none, oliver marks in if we were villains, achilles in the song of achilles, dorian gray in tpodg.

a fun fact is he is a natural blonde and spent most of his childhood that way but he now dyes it dark because he thinks that’ll give him more versatility in terms of the roles he can play. blonde ppl are usually cast as only the lover or the innocent n he wants to play villains and heroes and leading men as well.

very gay, n that’s pretty much a known thing by everyone but his family?? his family have arranged to have him married to women twice n both times its not worked out. the first time he basically drove her away with his reckless hedonism and alcoholism, and the second arranged marriage was to alice, one of the four students who went missing

archetypes: the figurehead. the challenger. the magician. the knight. the underdog.

ENTP-T / the debater personality.

theatre arts major, minoring in classics.

trigger warning for internalised homophobia / familial prejudice.

act three: the biography !

heavy is the head that wears the crown, though yours is the size of a tennis ball when you are born three weeks premature, barely formed enough to open your eyes. for those first few weeks all your parents knew were fear and love — fear that you would leave them, love that you had made it through so much, hooked up to wires like a fish in a cryogenic tank. to them your heart that learned one day to beat of its own accord was a miracle. perhaps that’s why you became their golden boy.

being born as a boy on the brink of death makes you invulnerable. you were achilles and the world couldn’t touch you for you were shielded from harm by a mother’s protective spell. should nathaniel lay so much as a finger on your skin, a voice would raise like the sound of a god from the veranda where she sat sipping her wine, play nice, boys! the sound of it thick with merlot. in every fight they took your side ; angel-headed creatures never lied. you soon learned that adults would believe anything if they liked you, that flattery will get you anywhere and to the well-trained mind, conversation was little more than a parlour game.

you harboured your mother’s beauty, the softness of her voice, the firmness of her skin and light in the corners of her smile. of your father, they’d say you inherited his wit, though that was your own — as was the golden hair that tousled your head, taken not from ambrose ballantyne but rather the bout of his three-week business trip to germany when your mother had bedded the gardener. if he knew, he never mentioned it. to believe such a fate would imply that he was not enough for her. though you noticed one day when you were nearing five and the sun was ripe on your freckle-flecked skin that the gardener had stopped coming at all. the grass, once shaven to its scalp, now grew to your knees.

at school, you learned with porridge still clinging to your mouth that the way to win over your teachers was through your smile. yours was the kind of school where the christmas play was not the nativity but rather the story of the gods, and stardom came to you in the role of apollo, sun shining from your beaming face, a bright halo of hair around your head. this was the first time you noticed a coldness in nathaniel’s eyes as your father threw you over his shoulder and your mother drenched you in praise. a bout of food-poisoning on your brother’s part rendered the italian restaurant, visited in your honour, abandoned. you never did find out if he was faking.

the room to his door remained shut after that and you learned to wile away your hours in the company of nannies and children from neighbouring castles, played at knights and rescued princesses from nearby dungeons, a tin-foil crown lopsided on your head. you learned to seek influence in the faces of those around you, how their eyes would widen as they hung like stalactites to your words. storyteller. prophet. riddler. prince. you cut your tongue into a well-kept sword and sparred with it thrice a day.

by nine you had read all of dickens novels. by eleven, all of shakespeare’s comedies — though you understood them as much as a cricket knows the meaning of the cosmos. still, it sounded rich and impressive when asked by aunties at dinner parties, what are you reading in school, otto? he finds the curriculum tiring, your mother would say, stroking a hand through your thick head of hair. otto’s just finished the merchant of venice. soon you grew to ignore your brother’s glowers at your back. your mother’s was the only smile you needed.

in cap and blazer your mother would drop you off at school, gated and turreted, the kind that was the envy of poorer neighborhood wives. when you were young, you were sure the gifts that came your way were yours alone, though as you grew older, you learned to expect them in the same way the school expected cheques from your parents. they named them benefactors, you noticed one day, on the wooden plaques fixed to the common room walls. the same plaques you would one day notice their names engraved upon in the arching hallways of sacred heart. acclaim was bought, not earned, and your success was littered with blood money.

what’s a king without a kingdom? your father surely wanted you to inherit his, though it was not in law and corporal finance that you found yourself a castle, but rather upon the stage. when red curtains split, you found you could become anything with the power of your will — boy, man, lion, snake, each of them wrung out by wordsmiths dead in their graves, a certain romance in the dusky smell of stage lights. when every eye in the room was focused on you — that was when you felt most powerful. like a piece of art, you were something to be looked at and admired — and perhaps in the absence of self-earned merit your vanity blossomed, for even if the trophies that lined your cabinets and the a-grades in columns on a sheet came from heavy pockets, your parents could never buy the sound of applause.

actors are by nature volatile. though your facade was swifter than an arrow, backstage they would call you tempestuous, bigoted, vain. still, it never left the wings of the theatre. there was a kind of reverence surrounding you that words could not taper, godliness following you from school to college, a peer admired in the practice rooms of sacred heart where you poured over chekhov and ibsen but yearned to read sophocles and euripides.

you learned to pride yourself on your looks — a sharpened jawline and a sharper tongue — and found that people would do almost anything for a beautiful face. in the beginning, alice was one so much. first colleagues, then friends, then a frequenter to the table in your family’s house. with arrogance carried in the curve of your brow, you only ever saw her as an accessory. that changed when you met her brother, let yourself stumble, brogues in a size that differed from your own kicked beneath your bed, a shirt with a larger neck size, pulled sheets, the smell of a foreign cologne.

talk travelled. it wouldn’t do to have word of your deviance spread further than the ballantyne house. while your parents would claim they were forward-thinking, more lenient than their parents had been, there was a conservative priggishness to the way they’d brush such matters under the rug, your father scarcely able to meet your eye over the dinner table. soon after, the arrangement was set with you all but exalted from the plans until alice had been informed. too late to back out, neither of you all that eager to be wed, though your families would coo when you fixed your hair or she, in keeping with the role, adjusted your tie. at first it amused you to play house with one such as alice, but soon you grew listless. like a caged beast you felt suffocated by the falseness of it all. you’d leave the dinners held by your joint households and return bedraggled, smelling of whiskey and sex. you’re not sure alice ever knew the reason why you couldn’t love her, though perhaps she suspected. at night, the names that would fall from your lips would never be hers. oliver. daniel. mason. rupert. charles.

act four: character investigation !

otto’s an extremely materialistic character who obtains pleasure through the things you can buy in life rather than that which comes to you by way of humble experience. he likes rolex watches, armani suits, louis vuitton travel bags, silk scarves imported from india. he likes to drink wine from decades gone by, where he can almost taste the funk of a victorian farmer hand pressing the grapes into a pulp, or to read a manuscript from the special collections section of the library that he knows has passed through hands which have gone on to achieve greatness. to otto, alice was always an extension of this hedonistic, pleasure-seeking attitude — she was something to be paraded like the equestrian trophies on his bookshelf, or his name on the honour roll. it’s not that he didn’t see her as a person — he’s hardly a chauvinist, although it could easily be inferred from the disdain with which he talks to some women — but rather that he saw her as someone ethereal and admirable and of high social standing who would elevate his social standing, by extension, were he to spend time with her. (this was such a convoluted sentence omg sorry)

the engagement was not his choice. even the idea of it had never crossed his mind. he had never thought to marry – marriage to otto was a tool used for financial gain — and being already wealthy, he was content to live out his days as a bachelor. he would take lovers, of course, but it would be on his own terms without the involvement of the law. alice was chosen as a match for otto because she was from a wealthy, well-liked family and the two had been friends since childhood. it seemed to their parents inevitable that they would marry, and so all that was left was the agreed arrangement between the families and the exchanging of rings. strictly speaking, if the marriage between otto and alice had gone ahead, then alice would have been nothing more than a trophy wife to otto. it would have been a miserable marriage for her, and he would have grown to resent her for it — not resent her for the fact that he could never truly be free to love someone he wanted (for he still would) but resent her, and by extension his family, for taking the option to do that openly and publicly away from him. she would always be seen as the beard, the scorned lover, the cuckold, and it would dampen any future relationships he held with the stain of that upset.

act five: wanted plots !

people who he was friends with as a child (either in london or cheltenham if anyone in this group has a muse from there) but grew apart from when he was sent to private school / they view him as entitled now and the two no longer have much in common

someone who auditioned for the same role as him, but otto got it, and they’ve resented him for it ever since ! want this bad. or put your thang down flip it and reverse it: someone who got the role otto wanted and he loathes them for it.

hasn’t really dated anyone? at college, he tends to hook up with people in a vapid sort of way? so he wouldn’t rEALly have past relationships with boys unless it was….. incredibly quiet and on the DL, literally meeting up in the woods after school to read plato and play with each others hair. suddenly realised i want this. someone give me someone he reads plato in the woods with and kisses up against tree bark because even though everyone basically KnOWS otto isn’t out n probably never will be :/

alternatively someone who he had a vapid, senseless hook up with and grew attached to :/ rude. in this house we lov angst

i guess some friends he actually likes would be cool. maybe someone who he has a hold over, because he’s quite an engaging character with good leadership qualities, like at parties he’ll be the one telling the story and gesticulating wildly and everyone’s watching him or looking to him for where they’ll go next / how the night will pan out. if he has a hold over someone maybe he has some sort of leverage whereby they’ll complete his work for him if he’s out getting drunk which he usually is. if tht sounds like ur character is naive n could be coerced, hit me up

people he knows on a very superficial and base level in the fact that their only interactions together involve doing coke off someone’s sink and stumbling home in the dark. otto’s a massive hedonist. if he were a greek god, he’d be a mix between dionysus and apollo, but he has achilles’ vanity.

#heretics:intro #heretics:ooc #throws my boy out into the wind x #hope u lov him as much as i do #sorry i will mostly be using medium gifs in his threads cos his icon resources are sparse x

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magicallygrimmwiccan · 6 years ago

Text

Only Time

Summary: They used to spend almost every moment of their lives together. Everything changes once high school hits, and Roman begins to realize that his actions have consequences.

Notes: This is my half of an art/writing trade with the wonderful Wren (@dailypattondoodle or @moonfang03), who wanted some twin Logince with angst and a fluffy resolution. Welp, hope you enjoy this :) This is going to be posted in a couple different chapters, purely for the sake of my editor and formatting on Tumblr. Hope you enjoy, Wren!

Logan and Roman Everhart had always been non-normal children. They were an adopted set of identical twins, something very unheard of by most. Their adopted fathers were always quick to defend the legitimacy of their claim to parenthood, however, with Roman and Logan none the wiser. The twins also never quite seemed to act their age. Roman began to recite Shakespearean sonnets at 8 without being in an acting company. Logan was reading high-school level chemistry textbooks at age 10 and actually understanding them. Roman was fluent in at least 3 languages including English by the age of 11, and Logan could translate texts in at least 5 by the same age. Their fathers were extremely proud of their children (although baffled over how they learned these things that quickly) and encouraged their interests as individuals.

At the same time, however, both were still just average children. Roman enjoyed going to movies and playing outside and doing sports while also joining a Shakespeare youth company and a choir outside of school. Logan found a STEM group outside of school and joined that while also enjoying reading in his spot on the windowsill in the living room. Both boys had their differences, both from each other and from other children, of course, but first and foremost, they were brothers. They did everything together as children, from watching new shows and movies to starting new books and even trying to cook together. In other words, they were siblings. Yes, they fought, and had their differences, but at the end of the day, they were each other’s best friend. The two of them were always there for each other. Well… until high school, that is.

The first day of high school, Roman met the other theatre kids and was instantly enamoured by them. They understood him perfectly. They supported and participated in his dramatics. They didn’t laugh when he began to geek out over the latest Disney news or the latest Broadway musical or the newest episode of a cartoon show that he really should have stopped watching years ago when he got “too old for it”. They were there with him, just as passionate about the same things. Oh, sure, they all had their differences, and drama, but overall, Roman knew that he had found a new family in this small group of social outcasts in the theatre department at his new high school.

Logan, however? Logan struggled. Not only was he seen as a freak for his selective mutism (and yes, it was selective, he had a hard enough time talking normally so it wasn’t much of a stretch to only communicate in sign), his uncommon interests pushed him even further away from his peers. While he made a couple of friends, mostly fellow science fans, they had lives and responsibilities away from him and their group, and, as all of them were introverts, they tended to not meet up outside of school very often. As such, Logan was extremely lonely without Roman. But this was fine, he told himself. Roman was a social person by nature. He needed people to talk to that weren’t his brother. Logan had no reason to be upset, right?

“And then he just started bawling! I mean, it’s understandable, that spider was far too large for any five year old to handle, but I think that’s the most emotion he’s ever shown in his life!” Roman finished, head thrown back from the force of his laughter. The rest of his friends giggled a bit as well, all too used to hearing about the adventures of Young Logan and Roman.

“Roman, you’re so mean to your brother!” Mabel giggled, tossing her long brown hair over her shoulders. Her brown eyes twinkled with mirth as she almost dropped her fork into her pasta. Roman snorted and rolled his eyes, far too used to Mabel’s clumsiness.

“Mabel, you have no room to talk,” he shot back, grinning. “I seem to recall you telling us stories about being an absolute menace to your brother one summer when you were 12?” The other six people at the table laughed and oohed along with Mabel and Roman like the immature freshmen that they were. People at nearby tables shot them looks but did not speak up, ultimately succumbing to the apathy high school filled you with and returning to their regularly scheduled lunches. Nonetheless, their table did quiet down, not wanting to cause a fight to break out in the crowded lunchroom.

“Hey, speaking of brothers, I haven’t seen yours in a while, Roman,” Shiloh mentioned, instantly dampening the mood of the conversation. While Logan was liked by all at the table, more than one person had a complicated relationship with him, whether it be from classes or indirect experience through another person. Roman blinked in shock at Shiloh’s statement, mind whirling. He had just spoken to Logan an hour ago, hadn’t he? Outside of Logan’s Honors English classroom? And hadn’t his friends been with him? No, they had not, he concluded as the memories solidified. He had talked to Logan alone.

“He’s been busy with classes. He’s in all honors, remember, and he has a lot of activities to do outside of school,” Roman answered, voice even and unconcerned. Why should he be concerned, after all? This was normal behaviour for Logan, who did not like to talk to most people that were not in his immediate circle of Trusted Humans. Plus, these were not Logan’s friends. Acquaintances, yes, but not friends. Logan had his own friends, a couple of fellow sciencey introverts who did not mind Logan’s methods of communication. Why should Roman be concerned, then, that his friends had not seen Logan for a bit?

“Yeah, true. I dunno, though, he used to stop by at least once a lunch period. He hasn’t done that for at least two weeks,” Shiloh continued, chewing his bottom lip. Dani murmured in quiet agreement and shoved the rest of her sandwich in her mouth, and Mabel sighed, eyes flickering with melancholy. None of them would admit it, but they missed Logan’s visits, if only to see his adorable banter with his twin.

“He’s probably just busy, okay guys? Nothing’s wrong,” Roman huffed, stabbing violently into his pasta. “Why are you worried, anyway? He’d tell me if something is wrong.” Dani and Shiloh looked at each other across the table, silently communicating with eyebrow raises and glances. Clearly, Roman wasn’t paying attention to his sibling. Should they tell him, or let him figure this out on his own?

The bell to signal the end of lunch interrupted their decision making, and the group all stood to scatter to their afternoon classes, groaning the entire time. Roman hiked up his backpack and stalked off to algebra, slipping into his seat just before the late bell rang. Logan was fine, he knew. His friends had no reason to make such a big deal over this. Right?

Logan choked back his tears as he checked his phone for the fifth time in the last minute or so. Roman wasn’t coming, it was clear. This was far from the first time Roman had skipped their meetings, and it was very unlikely to be the last. He had a life, and friends, and better things to do with his time than spend time with his stupid nerdy brother who was still far too clingy at age 14. Five more minutes, he thought, I’ll give him five more minutes. He was already five minutes late, Logan knew, but he was not quite willing to accept that fact yet. He was not ready to admit that his brother was abandoning him.

Five minutes passed and Roman was nowhere to be found, as was normal lately. Logan sighed and began to walk towards his next class half an hour early as usual, ignoring the pangs and tearing in his chest. He should be fine, he couldn’t possibly expect Roman to spend every moment with him, he should be happy for his brother and his new friends. Logan knew that change was natural in high school, yet he somehow still felt awful over it. He should have made more of an effort in his younger years to talk to people other than Roman. Maybe then he’d know how to deal with this.

“Logan? You’re here early again. Is something wrong?” his Trig Honours teacher asked, concern dripping from her voice. Logan swallowed down his feelings, shifted his binder to his right arm, and lifted his left hand to reply.

No, I just finished lunch early and my friends are busy. May I please stay in here? he asked, hand shaking slightly at the thought of rejection. His teacher must have noticed and smiled at him, waves of calm radiating off of her.

“Of course you can stay in here, Logan. In fact, could you help me grade the Algebra 1 tests? If that’s not too much trouble,” she replied, holding up a stack of paper. Logan nodded and set his materials at his desk before walking back over and settling down to help grade. Grading relaxed him and took his mind off of his issues.

“So, Logan. Do you need to talk?” she asked, looking over her glasses. Logan shook his head, focusing on correcting a poor freshman’s factoring. She sighed and went back to silence, allowing Logan to stew in his thoughts. Far too soon, the rest of his class began to filter in, and Logan had to go back into his daily schedule, still raw and uncertain about what was going on with his brother.

Luckily, school was over quickly, and Logan began his walk home, not willing to wait for Roman to finish play practice today. Plus, he had homework, and Dad would need help making dinner since Papa was working late tonight. It’s not like Roman would worry, anyway, Logan knew as he reached the front door, reaching into his pocket to grab his house keys. He walked in the door, the scent of burning sugar hitting his nose.

“Logan? Can you help me? I can’t… figure out how to cook!” Dad’s voice called, tinged with panic. Logan chuffed, threw his backpack onto the couch, and walked into the kitchen, eyes widening as he took in the destruction around him. Flour dusted every surface. Eggs were splattered across the table. Sloppily chopped cloves of garlic lay on the floor, and a bottle of olive oil lay on its side, thankfully sealed and not leaking. In the middle of this cooking disaster zone stood Virgil Everhart, a famous author who still didn’t know how to cook at age 30. Logan smiles slightly and walked over, picking up a discarded chopping knife.

What are you trying to make, Dad? Virgil sighed and turned back to the stove, shutting it off and taking the slightly-smoking pan off of the burner.

“This… this nice pasta recipe. And we had all the things to hand make pasta… and I wanted to surprise Patton with something special? But… I failed,” Virgil muttered, gesturing around the room. Logan nodded and gently took the pan from Virgil. He grabbed out all the ingredients he was going to need and set to work, smiling.

I can do this, Dad. Just focus on cleaning up, Logan signed before setting to work. Virgil shuffled around behind him, cleaning up everything that he had almost destroyed and handing Logan the olive oil for later. Logan snorted and took it, giving his Dad a large smile and a big thumbs-up. Virgil was trying to learn a new skill, it was clear.

“Okay, it’s all cleaned up. Can I help?” Logan shook his head and finished kneading the dough, beginning to set it up to roll it out and cut it. The kitchen descended into silence as the two worked, Virgil mostly handing Logan things and stepping back and watching his son make the meal. Logan was just finishing dishing the pasta into bowls when the front door slammed open and Roman’s voice came floating in.

“I’m home, everyone! Do I smell garlic?” Logan stiffened a bit but focused on finishing his task while Virgil went out to find and talk to Roman.

“Yep. Logan actually made dinner. Talk to him,” Virgil drawled. Logan finished topping everything with parmesan and hurried towards his room, snatching a bowl on the way. No, he wasn’t avoiding Roman, what were you talking about?

He walked into his room and softly closed the door before collapsing into his desk chair, pulling out his math textbook and flipping open his notebook. This was not the first time he did this, eating dinner and doing homework while avoiding his family, and it would be far from the last time he did this. He shoved down the bubbling heat, stabbed his fork into a mushroom, and threw himself into graphing conic sections for the second night in a row.

“So… Roman. We need to have a talk,” Virgil started, sitting down with his noodles across from his more extroverted son. Roman blinked and looked up, mouth full of pasta and carrots. Confusion painted his face, which Virgil would find adorable in any other scenario, but right now made anger bubble in his gut. It was clear Logan was hurting, and Roman should have noticed and known, but he clearly had no idea, and that made Virgil angrier than he thought.

“About what? My grades are fine, I’m not having issues… what’s up, Dad? Is someone dying?” Roman babbled, eyes wide and panicked. Virgil sighed and pinched his nose. Wow, how did he raise such a dramatic child? He blamed Patton.

“No one is dying. You’re not in trouble. It’s Logan.” Roman’s face paled and he almost dropped the bowl, catching it at the last second. “I… what? What’s wrong with Logan? Is he being bullied? Is he okay? Is he sick? Does he have depression? Who do I need to fight?” Roman rattled off, fists clenching and teeth gritting. Virgil actually… felt scared of his son at that moment. That… that should not happen.

“Whoa, hang on, Roman! Slow down! No, Logan is okay in most of those fields. Please let me talk!” Virgil babbled. Roman quieted down, brown eyes wide with expectation. Virgil sighed, steepled his fingers, and began. “I… I believe Logan may be exhibiting symptoms of depression or anxiety. And… I want to ask you if you have any idea why?”

Roman frowned and began to think. He seemed to finally stumble across a solution and his eyes widened, horror and despair filling their cocoa depths. “I… holy shit. I have no idea,” he whispered. Virgil sighed, took a bite of his pasta, and began to think about how to explain things to his son.

“I… you talk a lot about your friends, which is great, don’t get me wrong, but you also used to talk about Logan… and I’m wondering if you’ve just stopped talking to him?” Roman frowned before comprehension dawned.

“I haven’t been talking to him… oh crap, we were supposed to meet up at lunch today… oh crap!” Roman bolted upright, face pale. “I… where’s Logan! I need to talk to him! I- I need to fix this!” He sprinted out of the room, leaving Virgil alone to eat his pasta and contemplate all the horrible outcomes this situation could bring.

The front door opened again and closed again, and Virgil looked up to find Patton smiling softly at him. “Hey, honey, what’s going on?” Virgil sighed and pecked Patton on the cheek.

“Roman and Logan… are having some issues. They’re talking it out now.” Patton nodded and sat next to him, squeezing his hand.

“It’ll be fine, darling. They’re strong. They have a great bond. Everything will be okay,” Patton whispered. Virgil leaned against him, smiling softly.

“I hope so, Patt. I hope so.”

Knock knock. “Logan? Can we talk?” Logan’s head snapped upwards and he gulped at the sound of Roman’s nervous voice. His brother only sounded nervous when things were serious. Had Logan done something wrong? The mere thought sent nasty whispers through his brain, and he tried to block them out, focusing on the present. He stood and walked to his door, opening it to find Roman fidgeting with his sleeves in the hallway. “Can I come in?” Roman asked, eyes shining with something Logan couldn’t decipher. Logan nodded and let him in, closing the door behind his twin before sitting back in his desk chair while Roman perched on the bed. Silence reigned as the brothers faced each other, neither putting forth any words. Finally, after a solid three minutes of silence, Roman placed his hands on his knees, sighed, and began.

“Logan. I… you’ve been acting off lately. A bit more… depressed? And anxious? And I’d like to know what’s going on.” Logan bit his lip and wrung his hands together, trying to formulate a response. Should he be honest? Should he tell Roman the truth about his feelings? Or should he try and make Roman feel better? Looking into Roman’s earnest eyes, however, Logan felt all plans of lying leave his head. He had to tell his twin the truth.

I… have been feeling abandoned lately? You have been skipping our lunch meetings to hang out with your friends… and we don’t talk much anymore… which is fine! You have your own friends and your own life. I just feel a bit sad and hurt over it, Logan signed. His hands shook as they formed the damning signs, his hands lowering when he was done. Silence reigned, and Logan’s throat began to close up. He was so stupid, why couldn’t he just push his feelings down, why couldn’t he grow up and let Roman go-

Logan was suddenly yanked into a hug and he gasped, tears bubbling in his eyes. “You’re okay, Logan. You’re okay. I’m so, so sorry, bro, I didn’t know, I’m so sorry,” Roman sobbed, squeezing Logan. Logan slowly lifted his arms and hugged Roman back, finally allowing the tears to stream down his cheeks. There the two brothers sat, crying, for a length of time neither could tell, simply basking in the presence and love of the other, their best friend since birth. Eventually, Roman pulled back, sniffing, but kept his hands on Logan’s shoulders, giving him a watery grin.

“Okay. I promise, I will not forget our meetings, okay? In fact, I’m going to start spending all of lunch at least once a week with you. How does that sound?” Logan’s eyes widened and he frantically shook his head. No, he didn’t want that, Roman’s friends would start to hate him for taking Roman away-

“Hey, Logan? My friends will understand, okay? You come first, anyway. If they can’t handle me spending time with my brother, then they weren’t that great of friends in the first place,” Roman stated firmly, his voice cutting through Logan’s spiraling thoughts. Logan gulped and raised his hands.

I don’t want to cut into your time with people you enjoy, though. Roman growled and shook Logan gently.

“Logan. You matter more, okay? Plus, they all miss you. Just… trust me on this, okay?” Logan slowly, shakily nodded, and Roman smiled softly. “Good. That’s great, Logan. Now, yell at me if I do anything stupid, okay?”

Logan snorted. You’ll be smacked about ten times per day, then. Roman blinked before his cheeks puffed out.

“Hey! That’s rude!” Logan giggled, and Roman simply pouted more in an effort to be the largest drama queen on the planet. This caused Logan to giggle harder, and finally, Roman broke down laughing as well, happiness welling up in both sibling’s souls. They ended up cuddling on Logan’s bed and watching Netflix, somehow, but neither complained. This was the most time they’d spent with each other for a while, and neither was willing to have this end.

What neither knew was that, when they eventually fell asleep, Patton slipped into the room and tucked them in, plugged in Logan’s laptop, and dropped a soft kiss onto both of their foreheads. “Sweet dreams, kiddos,” he murmured before leaving, smiling to himself. His kiddos were finally beginning to make things better, and nothing could be better in his eyes.

“Logan, calm down. They all like you, remember?” Roman murmured, nudging his brother in the ribs gently. Logan gulped and adjusted his grip on his Caesar salad, staring across the lunchroom at Roman’s usual table filled with loud, laughing theatre kids. Mabel was draped across Dani, the two girls watching something on Dani’s phone. Shiloh and Tommy were shouting in Hebrew about math homework (Logan could only tell because he glimpsed their open math textbooks), and Clair was giggling along with Cory and Kate about cute humans. Overall, an alien environment to Logan. He didn’t fit in; he didn’t belong there. Roman huffed and grabbed Logan’s arm, yanking him after him as he marched over.

“Friends! Countrymen! Gentlewomen! Lend me your ears!” he called, causing the entire cafeteria to turn around and stare at them. Logan flinched, but Roman and his entire friend group took this in stride, grinning.

“Yes, Your Highness? What say you?” Shiloh yelled back, his voice lilting with sarcasm. The entire table chorused agreement, a cacophony of sarcasm erupting from the table. Logan flinched back, but Roman pushed onwards, gently shoving him in between Shiloh and Alfred. Logan simply fidgeted with his fork and waited to be kicked from the table.

“I say that my darling advisor, my dear brother, will be joining us today!” Roman chirped, lowering his volume. The rest of the cafeteria ignored them once again, and Logan swallowed as all the eyes at the table turned to him. He was acutely aware of how his argyle sweater vest and tie made him stand out among this group of fashionable teens. He fidgeted, not used to this much attention. Mika and Wirt were much more subdued and hated eye contact as much as Logan did. This… this was not in Logan’s comfort zone at all.

“Cool! So, Logan, do you listen to musicals? I just finished listening to the UK version of Heathers and do I have some opinions,” Mabel answered Roman, slamming her fist into the table.

“Oh, en guarde, bitch, you do not get to trash that recording!” Tommy yelped, slamming his fist into the table. Mabel yelled a challenge back, and Logan soon found himself embroiled in a conversation about which version of Heathers was better, a topic he knew nothing about. However, he found this conversation… pleasant, even fun. All of Roman’s friends were very welcoming and warm, and all of them took their time and let him sign, Roman translating for him. Never once did Logan feel excluded. This was… nice. He smiled his first genuine smile in months. Things were finally looking up.

Notes: And that’s Chapter One! I’m most likely posting Chapter 2 tomorrow (fingers crossed!). Hope you all enjoyed this!

#sanders sides #logan sanders #roman sanders #twin logince #patton sanders #virgil sanders #parental moxiety #angst #fluff #hurt/comfort #selectively mute logan #i am an evil author #writing trade #chapter one #only time

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